srs;    •;,•  T     1 

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J  I  1  1 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT 

From  the  Library  of 

Henry  Goldman,    Ph.D. 

1886-1972 


SILVER  FIELDS 

AND  OTHER  SKETCHES  OF 
A  FARMER-SPORTSMAN 


SILVER  FIELDS 

AND  OTHER  SKETCHES  OF 
A  FARMER-SPORTSMAN 


BY 

ROWLAND  E.  ROBINSON 

Author  of  **  Uncle  Lisha's  Shop,"  "  Danvis  Folks," 
"  In  New  England  Fields  and  Woods,"  etc. 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

(3tbe  flilicrsibc  prcej*  CambriDge 
1921 


COPYRIGHT,  1921,  BY  MARY  R.  PERKINS 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


s 

52  / 


CONTENTS 

SILVER  FIELDS  3 

FOX-HUNTING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND  17 

DANVIS  FARM  LIFE  42 

SOBAPSQUA  89 

BLACK-BASS-FISHING  IN  SUNGAHNEETUK  105 

ON  A  GLASS  ROOF  124 

MERINO  SHEEP  141 

A  LITTLE  BEAVER  158 

TRAPPING  UP  LITTLE  OTTER  165 

THE  BOY  182 

I.  TAKE  THE  BOY  182 

n.  THE  BOY  AND  THE  GUN  184 

HI.  THE  BOY  AND  THE  ANGLE  186 

THE  COUNTRY  DOCTOR  191 

PORTRAITS  IN  INK  195 

I.  THE  FARMER  195 

II.  THE  TRAPPER  198 

III.  THE  SHOEMAKER  201 

IV.  THE  ANTICIPATOR  203 
V.  A  PROFESSOR  OF  FISHING  206 

SMALL  SHOT  209 

i.  SOME  POOR  MEN'S  RICHES  209 

H.  THE  OLD  GUN  212 

HI.  THE  SORROWS  OF  SPORTSMEN  214 

IV.  THE  GOOSE-KILLERS  217 

V.  WHY  NOT  WAIT?  220 

NEW  ENGLAND  FENCES  222 

HUNTING  THE  HONEY-BEE  243 

THE  VOICES  OF  THE  SEASONS  256 


SILVER  FIELDS 

AND  OTHER  SKETCHES  OF 
A  FARMER-SPORTSMAN 


SILVER  FIELDS 

AFTER  many  downfalls  of  snow  by  night  and  day, 
everything  of  lesser  height  and  sheer  uprightness 
than  buildings  and  trees  is  buried  in  universal 
whiteness.  Sometimes  the  snow  flutters  down 
and  silently  alights  like  immense  flocks  of  birds. 
At  other  times  it  descends  as  silently,  but  like 
the  continuous  falling  of  a  gray  veil  shutting  one 
in  from  all  the  world  lying  farther  away  than  his 
nearest  outbuildings.  Another  snowfall  comes 
blown  by  howling  winds  in  long  slants  to  the  earth 
and  whirled  and  tossed  along  the  fields  blurring 
their  surface  hi  a  frozen  crust. 

Then  comes  a  day  when  the  wind  quits  buffet- 
ing the  snow  from  this  side  and  that  and  stands 
still,  debating  which  way  it  shall  blow  next,  while 
the  sun  burns  into  the  cold  blue  sky's  eastern  rim, 
runs  its  short  course  over  the  dazzling  northern 
fields,  and  burns  its  way  out  behind  the  glorified 
western  mountains.  When  the  sun  is  highest  the 
air  bites  cheeks  and  nose  and  fingers  with  a  sharp 
chill,  and  one  feels  its  teeth  gnawing  his  toes 
through  his  boots  if  he  does  not  bestir  them.  At 
nightfall  the  smoke  of  the  chimneys  leans  toward 
the  North  Star  and  by  the  next  morning  the  wind 
comes  roaring  up  from  the  south,  armed  with 


4  SILVER  FIELDS 

swords  and  spears  of  cold  that  no  armor  of  wool 
or  fur  can  ward  off,  and  from  every  vantage- 
ground  of  ridge  and  drift  stream  the  white  ban- 
ners of  snow.  Then  clouds  come  drifting  across 
the  sky,  first  a  few,  then  so  many  that  they  get 
into  a  jam  against  some  star  or  mountain  some- 
where to  the  northward,  and  in  a  few  hours  all  the 
blue  is  clogged  with  a  dull  gray  mass.  As  the  later 
coming  legions  of  the  wind  arrive,  the  temper  of 
their  weapons  is  softened  and  their  keen  edge 
blunted.  The  snow  loses  its  crispness  and  takes 
the  imprint  of  a  foot  like  wax. 

We  have  a  midwinter  thaw,  the  traditional 
January  thaw  a  little  belated;  and  presently  it 
begins  to  rain  pellets  of  lead  out  of  the  leaden  sky, 
rain  that  has  none  of  the  pleasant  sounds  of  sum- 
mer showers.  There  is  no  merry  patter  on  the 
snow-covered  roof,  no  lively  clatter  on  intercept- 
ing green  leaves  nor  splashes  of  dimpled  pools; 
only  windows  and  weather-boards  resound  to  its 
sullen  beat.  When,  after  some  hours  of  rainfall, 
the  snow  has  become  softened  down  to  the  earth, 
so  that  when  one  walks  in  it  his  tracks  show  a 
gray,  compacted  slush  at  the  bottom,  the  wind 
lulls  and  veers  to  the  northward  and  patches  of 
blue  are  opened  in  the  world's  low,  opaque  roof, 
windows  through  which  the  sun  shines  upon  some 
fields  and  mountain  peaks,  making  them  whiter 
than  the  whiteness  of  snow. 


SILVER  FIELDS  5 

The  air  grows  colder,  coming  out  of  the  north; 
but  if  the  advance  of  Boreas  is  slow  and  cautious, 
and  he  sends  before  him  his  light-armed  skir- 
mishers, the  snow  is  frozen  so  gradually  that  it 
turns  to  a  crumbly,  loose  mass,  with  a  thin, 
treacherous  surface,  where  nothing  much  heavier 
than  a  fox,  if  not  as  broadly  shod  as  with  snow- 
shoes,  may  go  without  vexatious  and  most  tire- 
some labor.  If  the  change  of  temperature  is  sharp 
and  sudden  enough  to  freeze  the  water  held  in  the 
snow  before  it  has  time  to  leach  down  to  the  earth, 
we  are  given  a  crust  so  firm  that  it  is  a  delight  to 
coasters  and  all  walkers  and  runners  on  the  snow. 

It  is  now  no  toil  but  a  pleasure  to  go  across  lots. 
"The  longest  way  round"  is  not  now  "the  short- 
est way  home."  The  fields  give  better  footing 
than  the  highways.  The  side  of  the  highways  is 
pleasanter  to  the  feet  than  the  two  grooves  the 
horses  and  sleighs  have  worn  hi  its  center  in  all 
their  two  months'  going  and  coming.  There  is  a 
silver  stile  along  every  rod  of  every  fence,  and  you 
may  walk  anywhere  over  the  buried  gray  wall  or 
rail  fence  at  your  ordinary  pace,  and  sit  down  to 
rest  on  the  top  of  the  stakes  where  last  July,  when 
the  daisies  were  blowing,  the  bobolink  sang, 
higher  than  you  could  reach.  Can  it  be  that  sum- 
mer ever  blossomed  here  in  these  frozen  fields? 
How  long  ago  it  seems;  and  yet  we  are  not  much 
older! 


6  SILVER  FIELDS 

When  the  full  moon  comes  pulsing  up  behind 
the  evergreen-crested  hill,  with  the  black  sil- 
houette of  a  pine  slowly  sliding  down  its  yellow 
disk,  trunk,  dry  limb,  and  bristling  branch  clear- 
cut  against  it,  and  slowly  draws  toward  it  the 
long  blue  shadows,  it  is  no  time  to  bide  within 
doors.  In  every  cold  night  of  the  year  that  gives 
many  such  to  us  Northern  folk  we  may  have  fire- 
side and  lamplight  at  some  price,  but  not  for  love 
nor  money  many  times  in  a  winter  such  a  night 
as  this,  such  warmth  out  of  snow  and  frost,  such 
celestial  light  shed  on  silver-paved  fields.  Let 
us  set  our  faces  toward  the  moon  and  trail  our 
shadows  behind  us  till  we  lose  them  among  the 
shadows  of  the  pines  and  hemlocks  of  Shellhouse 
Mountain. 

Solid  and  appetizing  food  is  this  firm  crust  for 
our  feet!  How  they  devour  the  way  with  crunch- 
ing bites,  reminding  our  teeth  of  the  loaf  sugar  of 
youthful  days  when  the  snowy  cones,  swathed  in 
the  purple  paper  that  our  mothers  used  for  the 
concoction  of  dyestuff ,  tempted  us  to  theft.  What 
better  wine  than  this  still,  sharp  ah*! 

The  even,  smooth  surface  of  the  snow  has  been 
preserved;  it  is  not  pitted,  nor  in  places  cut  into 
fleecy  texture  as  the  sun  and  wind  of  March  carves 
it  sometimes.  The  dark  blue  shadows  of  the  tree- 
trunks  lie  clear-edged  upon  it,  not  jagged  and 
toothed  as  when  they  fall  on  grass  ground.  Every 


SILVER  FIELDS  7 

branch's  shadow  lies  blue-veined  upon  it,  every 
mesh  of  twigs  is  netted  more  distinctly  there  than 
the  substance  is  against  the  sky,  the  torn  bird's 
nest  and  every  wind-forgotten  leaf  are  revealed 
on  the  white  surface. 

A  winged  phantom  startles  us  gliding  across  the 
silver  field  just  before  us,  as  swift  in  its  flight  but 
not  more  noiseless  than  the  great  owl  it  attends. 
Owl  and  shadow  dissolve  in  the  distant  blue  and 
white,  and  presently,  when  this  spirit  of  the  night 
has  regained  his  woodland  haunt,  his  hollow, 
storm-foreboding  hoot  is  heard  resounding  through 
the  dark  aisles  of  the  forest. 

All  sounds  are  at  one  with  the  hour  and  season. 
The  snow  crust  cracks  in  long  but  almost  imper- 
ceptible fissures,  the  ice  settles  to  the  galling  level 
of  the  brooks  and  ponds  with  a  sudden  resonant 
crash,  the  frozen  trees  snap  like  the  ineffectual 
primers  of  an  ambushed  foe.  All  are  winter's 
voices,  as  ancient  as  hoary  winter's  self,  that  only 
emphasize  the  silence  out  of  which  they  break. 
The  jingle  of  the  sleigh-bells  along  a  distant  road, 
the  crunching  of  our  footsteps,  and  their  sharp 
short  echoes,  are  the  only  sounds  that  betoken 
any  human  presence  in  all  the  wide  glittering  ex- 
panse, with  its  blotches  of  woodland  and  dots  of 
sleeping  farmsteads. 

We  are  not  the  first  explorers  here.  A  fox  has 
left  the  record  of  his  wanderings,  exaggerated  like 


8  SILVER  FIELDS 

many  another  traveler's  accounts  of  himself  writ 
on  a  more  enduring  page  than  this,  for  if  you  will 
believe  this  fellow's  tracks  made  before  the  thaw, 
he  was  as  big  as  a  wolf,  and  formidable  enough  to 
raise  a  hue  and  cry  in  the  township  against  him. 
The  hare  might  be  frightened  to  see  the  print  of 
his  own  pads,  now  grown  as  big  as  the  tracks  of  his 
enemy,  the  lynx.  A  skunk  was  warmed  up  into 
such  activity  as  his  short  legs  could  compass  and 
made  his  mark  in  the  soft  snow,  unmistakable, 
though  almost  big  enough  for  the  track  of  the 
mephitic  monster  of  the  Wabanakee  legend;  the 
rows  of  four  footmarks  printed  diagonally  athwart 
his  course  when  he  cantered  abroad  from  his  bur- 
row are  none  but  his,  whereto  is  added  proof  of 
his  sometime  presence  in  a  spicy  waft  of  the  air. 
The  regular  parallel  dots  of  the  weasel's  track 
make  a  great  show  where  he  came  to  the  surface 
above  his  regular  runway  along  the  buried  fence. 
He  and  the  fox,  though  unseen,  are  as  wide  awake 
this  cold  night  as  ever,  but  they  and  all  later 
travelers  are  modest  now,  and  set  down  naught 
of  their  journeys. 

Can  it  be  that  there  were  giants  here  so  lately 
as  a  month  ago  when  the  woodchopper  went  this 
way  to  his  work!  Here  are  his  monstrous  foot- 
prints, albeit  the  stride  is  short,  and  there  he  set 
his  huge  axe,  before  which  the  trees  should  have 
gone  down  like  mullein  stalks,  and  there  he  set 


SILVER  FIELDS  9 

his  caldron  of  a  dinner  pail  while  he  lighted  his 
pipe.  How  could  so  small  a  blaze  as  that  little 
burned-out  match  afforded,  ever  have  fired  his 
furnace  of  a  pipe!  Yet  from  these  dropped  frag- 
ments of  home-grown  tobacco,  I  conclude  that 
our  giant  was  only  an  ordinary  little  Frenchman 
whose  feet  caught  the  trick  of  his  tongue. 

The  packed  snow  resisted  the  thaw  more  than 
that  which  lay  as  it  fell,  so  that  beaten  paths  that 
were  sunk  below  the  surface  are  raised  causeways 
now,  a  narrow,  slippery  footing  that  no  one  tries 
with  all  this  wide  pavement  to  choose  from. 

Now  if  we  might  have  the  luck  to  see  a  fox,  how 
well  his  furry  form,  clad  for  such  weather,  so  agile, 
noiseless,  and  wild,  would  fit  the  scene,  and  we 
ought  to  see  one,  for  this  little  basin,  rimmed  with 
the  rough  hills  on  the  east  side  and  on  the  others 
with  low  ridges,  is  a  favorite  spot  with  foxes,  a 
trysting-place  at  this  love-making  season  and  a 
hunting-ground  in  spring,  summer,  and  fall,  when 
the  tall  wild  grass  harbors  many  field  mice.  More- 
over, Reynard  often  gets  a  free  lunch  here,  for 
hardly  a  year  goes  by  that,  to  save  the  trouble  of 
burial,  a  dead  horse  or  cow  is  not  hauled  to  this  out- 
of-the-way  spot  where  foxes,  skunks,  and  crows 
find  cheap  and  speedy  sepulture  for  everything 
but  the  bones.  It  was  undoubtedly  the  bed  of  a 
little  pond  two  or  three  hundred  years  ago  and  the 
home  of  beavers  or  in  some  such  way,  of  account 


10  SILVER  FIELDS 

to  the  Indians,  for  on  the  southwest  bank  are  to 
be  found  plenty  of  flint  chips  of  the  old  arrow- 
makers.  Only  a  little  brook  trickles  through  it 
now,  complaining  with  a  faint,  muffled  whimper 
under  its  concave  glare  of  shell  ice,  of  its  dimin- 
ished strength  and  babbling  in  a  feeble  voice  of 
the  days  when  it  brawled  bravely  over  the  stones 
into  the  pond  all  the  droughtiest  summer  through 
and  tumbled  down  the  rocks  below  it  with  in- 
cessant clatter. 

Hush!  ; Stand  stock  still,  breathe  softly  and 
whisper  no  louder,  for  there,  just  out  of  the  shad- 
ows of  the  hill,  sits  a  fox  bolt  upright  and  alert. 
A  stump?  Nonsense!  No  wood  nor  stone  un- 
touched by  the  hand  of  the  most  cunning  carver 
ever  had  such  lifelike  form,  such  expression  of 
alertness.  You  can  see,  if  your  eyes  are  sharp 
enough,  the  slight  motion  of  his  ears  as  he  pricks 
them  toward  us,  as  his  nose  points,  for  he  has 
seen  or  heard,  not  smelled,  us;  for  the  light  breeze 
sets  from  him  to  us,  and,  I  fancy,  touches  our 
nostrils  with  a  faint  waft  of  his  pungent  odor. 
You  can  see  the  curve  of  his  back,  his  fluffy  brush 
lying  along  the  snow  —  nearly  make  out  the  white 
tip  of  it.  The  ruddiness  of  his  coat  almost  shows, 
but  moonlight  is  a  poor  revealer  of  color;  the  pines 
are  not  green,  as  we  know  they  are,  but  black,  and 
everything  is  black  or  blue,  or  gray  or  white. 
Now  he  moves  his  head  a  little.  He  is  growing 


SILVER  FIELDS  11 

more  and  more  suspicious  and  presently  will  van- 
ish like  a  swift  shadow  in  the  shadow  of  the  woods. 
Shall  we  send  him  off  with  a  shout  or  try  how  near 
he  will  let  us  come?  Then  step  carefully  and 
slowly.  How  steadfast  he  stands,  though  we  have 
lessened  by  half  the  distance  that  lay  between 
us  when  we  first  saw  him.  He  must  have  an  ap- 
pointment here  with  the  most  bewitching  vixen 
in  all  fox  society,  and  will  not  budge  till  he  must. 
How  does  the  wise  scamp  know  that  our  guns  are 
at  home?  Or  has  he  not  heard  or  seen  us  yet,  all 
his  looking  and  listening  being  for  the  coming  of 
his  mistress?  Has  love  made  him  blind  and  deaf 
to  all  enemies  but  the  maiden  of  his  heart?  Try 
with  a  mouse  squeak  if  he  cannot  be  moved  by 
an  appeal  to  his  stomach.  Stock  still  yet!  Con- 
found his  impudence  or  his  unvulpine  stupidity. 
Salute  him  with  a  yell  that  shall  make  the  moon- 
lit night  more  hideous  to  him  than  the  glare  of 
noon  with  a  hundred  hounds  baying  behind  him. 
The  shadowy  hill  and  the  black  pines  behind  us 
toss  back  and  forth  the  echoes  of  such  an  infernal 
uproar  as  has  not  stirred  them  since  Indians  and 
the  "Indian  devil"  were  here.  Our  fox  is  para- 
lyzed with  fright,  actually  frozen  with  fear.  Let 
us  rush  upon  him  and  secure  him  before  the  blood 
starts  again  in  his  veins.  Well,  it  is  a  stump  after 
all !  But  were  ever  mortals  played  a  worse  trick  by 
a  real  fox? 


12  SILVER  FIELDS 

It  is  something  out  of  common  experience  to 
go  into  the  woods  in  the  night-time  without 
stumbling  over  roots,  logs,  or  bushes  and  groping 
in  constant  fear  of  bringing  up  against  a  tree.  No 
danger  now  of  bumping  against  trees  that  show 
as  plainly  as  in  a  summer  day.  The  undergrowth 
is  bent  down  and  snugly  packed  under  the  hard 
crust,  and  brush  heaps  are  bridged  with  it,  and 
trunks  of  fallen  trees  are  faintly  marked  by  slight 
ridges  that  one  walks  over  almost  without  know- 
ing it.  The  partridge  could  not  find  his  drum- 
ming-log now  if  he  wanted  it,  as  he  will  not  for 
six  weeks  to  come.  Sad  is  his  fate  if  he  was  caught 
napping  under  the  snow  when  this  crust  made, 
but  that,  I  think,  seldom  happens  to  him,  though 
often  to  the  poor  quail  in  this  region  of  deep  snows. 
Sixty  years  ago  quail  were  not  uncommon  here 
where  now  a  wild  turkey  would  scarcely  be  a 
stranger  sight.  Such  crusts  as  these  have  been  their 
more  relentless  enemy  than  guns  and  snares  or 
beasts  and  birds  of  prey,  and  have  exterminated 
them. 

The  partridge  does  not  harbor  under  the  snow 
except  in  cold,  dry  weather,  though  he  allows  him- 
self to  be  covered  by  snowfalls.  One  may  often 
see  the  mould  of  his  plump  body  where  he  has 
lain  for  hours  in  his  snug  bed  of  down,  and  rarely 
—  twice,  or  thrice  in  a  lifetime,  perhaps  —  one 
may  have  the  luck  to  be  startled  by  his  sudden 


SILVER  FIELDS  13 

apparition,  bursting  from  the  unsuspected,  even 
whiteness  of  the  wood's  soft  carpet.  In  mild  win- 
ter weather  he  is  aloft  where  his  food  is  or  is  em- 
broidering the  yielding  snow  with  his  pretty  foot- 
prints. Here  is  some  of  his  work  done  a  week  ago» 
now  frayed  out  at  the  edges  by  the  thaw,  but  it 
has  the  mark  of  his  own  pattern,  unmistakable, 
even  in  this  moonlight,  very  different  from  the 
clumsy  track  of  civilized  poultry.  It  runs  this  way 
and  that,  sometimes  doubling  on  itself,  and  dis- 
appears in  the  pallid  gloom  of  an  evergreen  thicket, 
where  perhaps  is  his  roosting-place. 

The  floor  of  the  woods  is  barred  and  netted  with 
an  intricate  maze  of  blue  shadows,  here  and  there 
splashed  with  a  great  blot  of  shade  where  the 
branches  of  a  hemlock  intercept  the  moonlight. 

How  still  it  is !  Even  the  harps  of  the  pines  are 
silent,  and  our  ears  are  hungry  for  some  other 
sound  than  our  own  breathing  and  the  crunch  of 
our  footsteps.  Imagine  them  suddenly  filled  with 
the  scream  of  a  panther,  stealthily  creeping  on 
our  track  unsuspected,  unseen,  unheard,  till  he 
splits  the  silence  with  his  devilish  yell.  But  they 
tell  us  now  that  the  panther  is  voiceless,  and  the 
tales  that  thrilled  our  childhood  with  an  ecstasy 
of  delightful  terror,  of  our  grandfathers  being  led 
into  the  woods  by  the  catamount's  cry,  like  that 
of  a  woman  in  distress,  were  myths  —  our  good 
old  grandfathers  were  liars  or  they  were  fools, 


14  SILVER  FIELDS 

"brought  up  in  the  woods  to  be  scared  by  owls." 
But  the  panther  may  be  here,  for  there  are  pan- 
thers in  Vermont  yet,  or  at  least  there  was  one, 
two  or  three  years  ago,  when  on  a  Thanksgiving 
Day  two  little  Green  Mountain  boys,  partridge- 
hunting  in  Barnard,  came  upon  a  monster  crouch- 
ing in  a  thicket  of  black  growth,  and  a  doughty 
grown-up  Green  Mountain  boy  killed  him  at  short 
range  with  a  well-delivered  charge  of  BB  shot. 
When  I  was  a  boy  there  was  always  a  panther 
prowling  about  this  mountain  in  huckleberry- 
time,  guarding  the  berries  for  the  two  or  three 
old  berry-pickers  who  used  to  tell  us  of  hearing 
his  fearful  cries.  He  performed  his  duty  well,  as 
far  as  concerned  us  youngsters.  When  the  berry 
season  was  over  he  departed  and  was  heard  no 
more  till  next  summer. 

A  sheer  wall  of  rock  bars  our  further  way  up  the 
mountain  in  this  direction.  An  ice  cascade,  silent 
as  all  its  surroundings,  not  the  trickle  of  the  small- 
est rill  of  snow  water  to  be  heard  in  its  core,  veils 
a  portion  of  the  black  steep  with  dull  silver,  bur- 
nished here  and  there  with  a  moon-glint. 

Let  us  sound  a  retreat  and  set  our  faces  toward 
the  gray  steeps  of  Split  Rock  Mount  and  the  piled- 
up  blue  and  white  Adirondacks,  and  get  back  on 
the  silver  fields,  brighter  than  ever  now.  As  we 
march  abreast  of  our  northward  slanting  shadows, 
with  the  moon  now  well  up  above  the  world,  we 


SILVER  FIELDS  15 

fancy  that  a  part  of  this  northern  half  of  the  earth 
outshines  her. 

Silver  fields  is  not  a  good  enough  name  to- 
night for  these  shining  farms,  for  the  creek  un- 
marked now  but  by  the  fringe  of  wooded  banks, 
nor  for  the  broad  lake  quiet  under  ice  and  snow, 
but  never  when  tossed  by  autumnal  storms  so 
white  as  now  and  scarcely  brighter  when  in  the 
glare  of  the  summer  sun.  If  you  have  a  newly 
minted  silver  coin  in  your  pocket,  cast  it  before 
you  and  see  how  dull  a  dot  it  is  on  the  surface.  It 
would  hearten  a  greenbacker  to  see  how  poor  a 
show  the  precious  metal  makes  to  look  at,  hardly 
worth  picking  up  out  of  acres  of  brighter  riches 
that  rust  doth  not  corrupt  and  that  shall  be  stolen 
by  no  meaner  thief  than  the  sun,  the  south  wind, 
and  the  rain.  The  roofs  of  gray  old  homesteads 
outshine  the  lights  in  the  windows,  and  we  won- 
der if  any  of  the  inmates  are  aware  how  royally 
their  houses  are  tiled.  Doubtless  not  one  of  them 
thinks  of  it,  or,  if  at  all,  only  as  protecting  the  pine 
shingles  from  the  sparks  of  the  rousing  winter  fires, 
or  as  so  much  filling  for  the  cistern  when  the  next 
thaw  comes ;  nor,  as  compared  with  it,  do  the 
interiors,  the  low,  whitewashed  ceilings,  rag  car- 
pets, creaking  splint-bottomed  chairs  and  deal 
furniture,  seem  mean  to  them  or  unfitting  their 
fine,  perishable  covering.  For  ourselves,  we  begin 
to  entertain  more  kindly  thoughts  of  such  indoor 


16  SILVER  FIELDS 

homeliness  and  desire  the  comforts  of  its  harboring, 
and  presently  shut  ourselves  in  from  the  blue  sky 
and  shining  moonlit  outer  world,  tired  and  con- 
tent to  smoke  a  restful  pipe  by  the  fireside. 


FOX-HUNTING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND 

IN  New  England  and  some  of  the  Northern  and 
Middle  States,  the  fox  is  hunted  with  two  or  three 
hounds,  or  oftener  with  only  one,  the  hunter  go- 
ing on  foot  and  armed  with  a  shot-gun  or  rifle, 
his  method  being  to  shoot  the  fox  as  it  runs  before 
the  hounds.  The  sport  is  exciting,  invigorating, 
and  manly,  and  by  its  votaries  is  esteemed  the 
chief  of  field  sports.  The  fox  is  proverbially  the 
most  cunning  of  beasts,  often  eluding  by  his 
tricks  the  most  expert  hunter  and  the  truest 
hounds.  Long  walks  are  required,  which  take  one 
over  many  miles  of  woods,  hills,  and  fields;  and  this 
in  fall  and  winter  when  the  air  is  always  pure 
and  bracing.  I  have  noticed  that  many  who  de- 
light to  shoot  the  hare  or  the  deer  before  the 
hounds,  are  accustomed  to  scoff  at  this  sport, 
which  indeed  is  generally  held  in  contempt  by 
those  who  arrogate  to  themselves  the  title  of  "true 
sportsmen." 

It  is  difficult  to  see  wherein  it  is  more  unsports- 
manlike to  hunt  before  hounds  an  animal  of  such 
self-possession  and  such  varied  cunning,  that  it 
is  continually  putting  its  pursuers  at  fault,  when 
it  is  sportsmanlike  to  hunt  in  like  manner  animals 
who  have  each,  speed  failing,  only  a  trick  apiece 


18    FOX-HUNTING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND 

—  the  hare  depending  on  its  doublings  to  elude 
the  dogs,  the  deer  on  running  to  water. 

The  reason  'for  this  nice  distinction  lies,  per- 
haps, in  that  deference  to  English  usage  which 
still  exists  among  us.  In  this  case  it  is  most  sense- 
less, for  even  if  fox-hunting  in  English  fashion  were 
practicable  here,  it  would  not  be  tolerated  by  our 
farmers,  who  would  never  endure  the  trampling  of 
their  cultivated  fields  and  the  destruction  of  the 
fences  by  a  score  or  more  hard-riding  horsemen. 
But  it  is  not  practicable,  for  no  horse  could  pos- 
sibly follow  the  course  of  the  hounds  and  fox 
among  our  hills  and  mountains,  where  the  chase 
often  leads  up  declivities  to  be  surmounted  only 
by  the  stanchest  and  most  active  hounds,  and 
through  thick  forests  and  almost  impassable 
swamps. 

In  New  England  the  hunt  is  for  the  red  fox  and 
his  varieties,  the  silver  and  cross  foxes.  The  gray 
fox  of  the  South  and  West  is  almost,  if  not  quite, 
unknown.  From  the  tip  of  his  nose  to  the  root  of 
his  tail,  the  red  fox  measures  about  twenty-eight 
or  thirty  niches,  his  tail  sixteen  to  eighteen  inches 
including  hah*,  and  his  height  at  the  shoulders 
thirteen  inches.  His  long  fur  and  thick,  bushy  tail 
make  him  look  larger  and  heavier  than  he  is.  Of 
several  specimens  which  I  have  weighed,  the 
largest  tipped  the  beam  at  twelve  pounds;  the 
least  at  seven  pounds.  The  general  color  is  yellow- 


FOX-HUNTING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND    19 

ish  red;  the  outsides  of  the  ears  and  the  fronts  of 
the  legs  and  feet  are  black;  the  chin  and  usually  the 
tip  of  the  tail,  white;  and  the  tail  darker  than  the 
body,  most  of  its  hairs  being  tipped  with  black. 
The  eyes  are  near  together  and  strongly  express, 
as  does  the  whole  head,  the  alert  and  cunning  na- 
ture of  the  animal. 

The  cross  fox,  much  scarcer  than  the  red,  is 
very  beautiful.  It  is  thus  described  by  Thompson; 
"A  blackish  stripe  passing  from  the  neck  down  the 
back  and  another  crossing  it  at  right  angles  over 
the  shoulders;  sides,  ferruginous,  running  into 
gray  on  the  back;  the  chin,  legs,  and  under  parts  of 
the  body  black,  with  a  few  hairs  tipped  with  white; 
upper  side  of  the  tail,  gray;  under  side  and  parts 
of  the  body  adjacent,  pale  yellow;  tail  tipped  with 
white.  The  cross  upon  the  shoulders  is  not  al- 
ways apparent,  even  in  specimens  which,  from  the 
fineness  of  the  fur,  are  acknowledged  to  be  cross 
foxes.  Size  the  same  as  the  common  fox." 

The  black  or  silver  fox  is  so  rare  in  New  Eng- 
land that  to  see  one  is  the  event  of  a  lifetime. 
The  variety  is  as  beautiful  and  valuable  as  rare. 
Its  color  is  sometimes  entirely  of  a  shining  black, 
except  the  white  tip  of  the  tail,  but  oftener  of  a 
silvery  hue,  owing  to  an  intermixture  of  hairs 
tipped  with  white.  It  has  probably  always  been 
uncommon  here,  for  it  is  said  to  have  been  held 
in  such  estimation  by  the  Indians  of  this  region, 


20    FOX-HUNTING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND 

that  a  silver  fox-skin  was  equal  in  value  to  forty 
beaver-skins,  and  the  gift  of  one  was  considered 
a  sacred  pledge.  One  often  hears  of  silver  foxes 
being  seen,  but,  like  the  big  fish  so  often  lost  by 
anglers,  they  almost  invariably  get  away. 

Foxes  are  less  rare  in  settled  countries  and  on 
the  borders  of  civilization  than  in  the  wilderness, 
for,  though  they  find  no  fewer  enemies,  they  find 
more  abundant  food  hi  the  open  fields  than  in 
the  forests.  The  common  field  mouse  is  a  favor- 
ite hi  their  bill-of-fare;  and  the  farmer's  lambs 
and  the  goodwife's  geese  and  turkeys  never  come 
amiss  therein.  These  are  all  more  easily  got  than 
hares  or  grouse.  In  justice  to  Reynard  it  must  be 
said,  however,  that  when  mice  are  plenty  lambs 
and  poultry  are  seldom  molested.  In  times  of 
scarcity,  he  takes  kindly  to  beech-nuts  in  the 
fall,  and  fills  himself  with  grasshoppers  and  such 
small  deer  in  the  summer.  When  these  fail  —  why, 
what  would  you?  An  honest  fox  must  live. 

When  not  running  before  the  hounds,  he  is 
seldom  seen  in  daytime,  except  it  may  be  by 
some  early  riser  whose  sharp  eye  discerns  him  in 
the  dim  dawn,  moving  hi  meadow  or  pasture,  or 
picking  his  stealthy  way  across  lots  to  his  home 
woods.  In  these  woods  he  spends  his  days,  sleep- 
ing or  prowling  slyly  about  in  quest  of  some  fool- 
ish hare  or  grouse.  Going  into  the  woods  without 
a  dog  you  might  pass  within  a  few  yards  of  him 


FOX-HUNTING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND    21 

and  never  suspect  that  his  keen  eyes  were  watch- 
ing you,  or  that  the  slight  rustle  of  fallen  leaves 
you  heard  was  caused  by  his  departing  footsteps, 
as  he  stole  away  with  a  tree  between  you  and  him. 

It  is  doubtful  if  the  fox  much  resorts  to  his  bur- 
rows except  in  great  stress  of  weather  and  during 
the  breeding  season,  or  when  driven  to  earth  by 
relentless  pursuit.  For  the  most  part,  he  takes 
his  hours  of  ease  curled  up  on  some  knoll,  rock, 
or  stump,  his  dense  fur  defying  northern  blasts 
and  the  "nipping  and  eager  air"  of  the  coldest 
winter  night.  Shelter  from  rain  or  snowstorms  he 
undoubtedly  will  take,  for  he  is  not  overfond  of 
being  bedraggled,  though  it  is  certain  he  will  some- 
times take  to  the  water  and  cross  a  stream  with- 
out being  driven  to  it. 

Reynard  goes  wooing  in  February,  and  travels 
far  and  wide  hi  search  of  sweethearts,  toying  with 
every  vixen  he  meets,  but  faithful  to  none,  for  his 
love  is  more  fleeting  than  the  tracks  he  leaves  in 
the  drifting  snow.  In  April  the  vixen,  having  set 
her  house  in  order  by  clearing  it  of  rubbish,  brings 
forth  her  young  —  from  three  to  six  or  more  at 
a  litter.  This  house  is  sometimes  a  burrow  in 
sandy  soil  with  several  entrances;  sometimes  a 
den  in  the  rocks,  and  sometimes,  in  old  woods,  a 
hollow  log.  In  four  or  five  weeks  the  queer  little 
pug-nosed  cubs  begin  to  play  about  the  entrance. 
The  mother  hunts  faithfully  to  provide  them  food, 


22    FOX-HUNTING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND 

and  may  sometimes  be  seen  on  her  homeward  way 
with  a  fringe  of  field  mice  hanging  from  her  mouth. 
About  the  entrance  to  the  den  may  be  seen  the 
wings  of  domestic  poultry,  wild  ducks  and  grouse, 
and  the  legs  of  lambs  —  the  fragments  of  many 
a  vulpine  feast. 

It  is  a  curious  fact,  and  one  I  have  never  seen 
mentioned  in  print,  that  while  the  cubs  are  de- 
pendent on  the  mother,  a  hound  will  only  follow 
her  for  a  few  minutes.  Of  the  existence  of  this  pro- 
vision for  the  safety  of  the  young  foxes  I  have  had 
ocular  proof,  confirmed  by  the  statements  of  per- 
sons whom  I  believe.  In  June,  1868,  an  old  vixen 
was  making  sad  havoc  with  one  of  my  neighbors' 
lambs,  and  an  old  fox-hunter  was  requested  to 
take  the  field  in  their  defense.  He  proceeded  with 
his  hounds  (tolerably  good  ones)  to  the  woods 
where  her  burrow  was  known  to  be,  and  put  the 
dogs  out.  They  soon  started  her  and  ran  her  out 
of  the  woods,  but  greatly  to  the  surprise  of  the 
hunter  they  returned  in  a  few  moments,  looking 
as  shamefaced  as  whipped  curs,  with  the  old  fox 
following  them.  Disgusted  with  the  behavior  of 
his  own  dogs,  he  sought  the  assistance  of  an 
old  hound  of  celebrated  qualities,  belonging  to  a 
neighbor.  She  was  put  out  with  the  other  dogs, 
with  just  the  same  result.  The  vixen  was,  at  last, 
shot  while  she  was  chasing  the  hounds,  who  then 
turned  upon  her,  biting  and  shaking  her  as  is 


FOX-HUNTING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND    23 

their  wont  when  a  fox  is  killed  before  them;  but 
my  friend,  the  hunter,  told  me  they  were  as  sick 
and  distressed  as  ever  dogs  were  after  an  encoun- 
ter with  a  skunk.  About  the  last  of  May,  1875, 
I  witnessed  a  like  incident.  A  stanch  old  hound 
of  my  own  having  accompanied  me  on  a  fish- 
ing excursion,  started  a  fox  hi  a  piece  of  woods 
where  a  litter  of  young  were  known  to  be.  Anx- 
ious to  preserve  the  litter  for  sport  hi  the  fall,  I 
hastened  to  call  in  the  dog.  I  found  him  trotting 
along  with  lowered  tail,  the  vixen  leisurely  trot- 
ting not  more  than  five  rods  hi  advance,  stopping 
every  half-minute  to  bark  at  him,  when  he  would 
stop  till  she  again  went  on.  I  called  him  hi  as 
easily  as  if  he  had  been  nosing  for  a  mouse,  though 
under  ordinary  circumstances  it  would  have  re- 
quired a  vigorous  assertion  of  authority  to  have 
taken  him  off  so  hot  a  scent. 

If  the  life  of  the  vixen  is  spared  and  she  is  not 
continually  harassed  by  men  or  dogs  during  the 
breeding  season,  she  will  remain  in  the  same  lo- 
cality for  years,  and  rear  litter  after  litter  there; 
perhaps  not  always  inhabiting  the  same  burrow, 
but  one  somewhere  within  the  same  piece  of  woods 
or  on  the  same  hill.  If  she  is  much  disturbed,  or 
if  she  perceives  that  her  burrow  is  discovered,  she 
speedily  removes  her  young  to  another  retreat. 
The  young  foxes  continue  to  haunt  the  woods 
where  they  were  reared  for  some  months  after 


24    FOX-HUNTING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND 

they  have  ceased  to  require  the  care  of  their 
mother,  and  then  disperse.  The  habits  above 
mentioned  are  common  to  the  cross  and  silver 
foxes  as  well  as  the  red  fox. 

And  now  for  the  hunt.  From  his  helpless  baby- 
hood in  leafless  April,  Reynard  has  come,  by  the 
middle  of  the  autumn,  to  months  of  discretion  and 
to  a  large  and  increasing  capacity  for  taking  care 
of  himself.  The  weapons  are  double-barrel  shot- 
guns of  such  weight  and  caliber  as  may  suit  the 
individual  fancy.  A  very  light  gun  will  not  do  the 
execution  at  the  long  range  sometimes  required, 
while,  on  the  other  hand,  a  very  heavy  one  will 
become  burdensome  in  the  long  tramps  that  may 
be  necessary;  for  a  man  of  ordinary  strength, 
an  eight-pound  gun  will  be  found  quite  heavy 
enough.  It  should  be  of  a  caliber  which  will  prop- 
erly chamber  its  full  charge  of,  at  least,  BB  shot 
—  for  I  hold  that  the  force  of  lighter  shot  will  be 
broken  by  the  thick  fur  of  the  fox;  indeed  I  would 
suggest  still  heavier  pellets,  say  BBB,  or  even  A. 

Our  hounds,  not  so  carefully  bred  as  they 
should  be,  cannot  be  classed  in  any  particular 
breed.  They  are  more  like  the  old  Southern  fox- 
hound, than  like  the  modern  English;  and  for  our 
purpose  are  incomparably  superior  to  the  latter. 
They  are  not  fleet,  like  him  (fleetness  here  being 
objectionable,  as  will  be  shown),  but  of  great 
endurance,  and  unsurpassable  scenting  powers  — 


FOX-HUNTING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND    25 

for  they  will  follow  a  fox  through  all  his  devious 
windings  and  endless  devices,  from  dawn  till 
dark,  through  the  night  and  for  another  day.  Our 
best  dogs  are  well  described  by  Shakespeare  iji 
"Midsummer  Night's  Dream": 

"My  hounds  are  bred  out  of  the  Spartan  kind, 
So  flew'd,  so  sanded;  and  their  heads  are  hung 
With  ears  that  sweep  away  the  morning  dew; 
Crook-kneed,  and  dew-lapp'd  like  Thessalian  bulls; 
Slow  in  pursuit,  but  matched  in  mouth  like  bells, 
Each  under  each." 

Their  colors  are  blue-mottled,  with  patches  of 
black  and  tan  or  yellow,  with  tan  eye-patches; 
white,  flecked  with  yellow,  termed  by  old-time 
hunters,  "punkin-an'-milk";  white  and  black  and 
black  and  tan,  with  variations  and  admixtures  of 
all  these  colors.  It  is  an  old  saying,  "that  a  good 
horse  cannot  be  of  a  bad  color";  and  the  color  of 
a  hound  is  more  a  matter  of  fancy  than  of  excel- 
lence. A  loud  and  melodious  voice  is  a  most  de- 
sirable quality,  and  this  many  of  our  native  fox- 
dogs  possess  in  perfection.  A  hound  with  a  weak 
voice  is  a  constant  worry,  and  one  with  a  discord- 
ant voice  vexes  the  ear. 

When  the  game  is  started  the  dog  should  con- 
tinually give  tongue,  so  that  you  (and  the  fox  as 
well)  may  always  know  just  where  he  is.  The 
wrinkled  brows  and  foreheads,  and  long,  pendent 
ears  and  flews  of  many  of  these  dogs,  give  them  an 
extremely  sad  and  troubled  expression  from  which 


26    FOX-HUNTING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND 

one  might  suppose  their  lives  were  "fu'  o'  sari- 
ousness."  Perhaps  (who  knows?)  this  solemn  cast 
of  visage  comes  of  much  pondering  on  the  knavish 
tricks  of  the  wily  fox,  and  of  schemes  for  circum- 
venting his  many  artifices.  Their  tails  are  not  at 
all  inclined  to  be  bushy,  like  those  of  the  English 
fox-hounds  of  the  present  day,  but  are  almost  as 
slender  and  clean  as  the  tail  of  the  pointer. 

It  is  the  early  morning  of  one  of  the  perfect  days 
of  late  October  or  early  November.  In  the  soft 
gray  light  of  the  growing  day  the  herbage  of  the 
pastures  and  the  aftermath  of  the  meadows  are 
pearly  with  frost  which  is  thick  and  white  on 
boards  and  fence-rails.  The  air  is  chill,  but  un- 
stirred by  the  lightest  breeze,  and  if  the  day  keeps 
the  promise  of  the  morning  it  will  be  quite  warm 
enough  for  comfortable  tramping  when  the  sun  is 
fairly  up.  The  hounds,  called  from  their  straw, 
come  yawning  and  limping  forth,  stiff  from  the 
chase  of  yesterday,  but  are  electrified  with  new 
life  by  the  sight  of  the  guns.  They  career  about, 
sounding  bugle-notes  that  wake  the  echoes  for  a 
mile  around.  Reynard  at  the  wood-edge,  home- 
ward bound  from  his  mousing  or  poultry-stealing, 
is  warned  that  this  is  to  be  no  holiday  for  him. 
Very  likely  the  hounds  are  too  eager  for  the  hunt 
to  eat  their  morning  Johnny-cake;  if  so,  let  them 
have  their  way  —  they  will  gobble  it  ravenously 
enough  to-night,  if  they  have  the  chance. 


FOX-HUNTING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND    27 

And  now,  away!  across  the  frosty  fields  toward 
yonder  low  hill  which  we  dignify  with  the  name  of 
mountain.  No  song-birds  now  welcome  the  com- 
ing day;  almost  the  only  sound  which  breaks  the 
gray  serenity  is  the  clamor  of  a  flock  of  crows  hi 
the  distant  woods,  announcing  their  awakening  to 
another  day  of  southward  journeying,  or  the  chal- 
lenge of  a  cock  in  a  far-off  farmyard.  As  you 
hurry  across  the  home  pasture,  the  cows  stop 
chewing  the  cud,  to  stare  curiously  at  hounds  and 
hunters,  and  then  arise,  sighing  and  stretching, 
from  their  couches  on  the  dry  knolls.  A  flock  of 
sheep  start  from  their  huddled  repose  and  scurry 
away,  halting  at  a  little  distance  to  snort  and 
stamp  at  the  rude  disturbers  of  their  early  medi- 
tations. Almost  the  only  signs  of  life  are  these 
and  the  upward-crawling  smoke  of  kitchen  chim- 
neys, where  sluggards  are  just  making  then*  first 
preparations  for  breakfast.  Yours  has  been  eaten 
this  half -hour. 

The  old  dog  plods  along,  with  serious  and  busi- 
ness-like air,  disdaining  and  repelling  all  attempts 
of  his  younger  companion  to  beguile  him  into  any 
unseemly  gambols;  but  when  you  cross  the  fence 
which  bounds  the  pasture  lying  along  the  foot  of 
the  hill,  where  the  rank  grass,  mixed  with  last 
year's  growth,  is  ankle-deep,  and  where  grass 
and  innumerable  stumps  and  logs  afford  harbor 
for  colonies  of  field  mice,  you  find  "there  is  life 


28    FOX-HUNTING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND 

in  the  old  dog  yet."  He  halts  for  an  instant  and 
snuffs  the  air;  draws  toward  a  tuft  of  grass  and 
noses  it  carefully;  his  sensitive  nostrils  dilate;  his 
staid  and  sober  tail  begins,  not  to  wag,  but  to 
describe  circles;  the  serious  lines  of  his  brow  be- 
come a  frown;  he  mounts  that  log  and  snuffs  it 
from  end  to  end  and  back  again  with  studious 
care.  There  has  been  a  fox  here,  but  which  way 
has  he  gone?  Never  fear  that  the  old  dog  will  not 
tell  you  soon,  but  by  what  marvelous  faculty  he 
finds  it  out,  who  but  a  dog  can  tell?  Alas!  such 
niceties  of  his  language  are  a  sealed  book  to  us. 
Now  his  loud,  eager  snuffing  has  grown  to  a  sup- 
pressed challenge,  and  every  muscle  seems  strained 
to  its  utmost  tension  as  he  leaves  the  log  and 
makes  a  few  lopes  toward  the  woods,  stops  for 
an  instant  as  if  turned  to  stone,  raises  his  good 
gray  muzzle  skyward,  and  awakens  all  the  woods 
and  hills  with  his  deep,  sonorous  voice!  That  way 
has  Reynard  gone,  and  that  bugle-note  has  per- 
haps given  him  premonition  of  his  doom.  This 
note  has  recalled  the  young  dog  from  his  wild 
ranging,  and  he  joins  his  older  and  wiser  com- 
panion, without  bringing  much  aid,  however,  for, 
catching  the  scent,  he  proclaims  his  discovery 
till  long  after  he  has  overrun  it,  now  and  then 
slightly  disconcerting  the  old  truth-teller;  but  the 
veteran  soon  learns  to  ignore  the  youngster  and 
works  his  way  steadily  toward  the  wooded  edge 


FOX-HUNTING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND    29 

of  the  hill,  never  increasing  his  speed  nor  abating 
the  carefulness  of  his  scenting.  Now  his  tuneful 
notes  become  more  frequent.  If  you  have  the 
heart  of  a  fox-hunter,  they  are  the  sweetest  mu- 
sic to  your  ears  in  all  the  world.  Up  the  steep 
side  of  the  hill  he  takes  his  way,  the  young  dog 
following,  and  both  giving  tongue  from  time  to 
time.  They  slowly  work  the  trail  to  the  top  of  an 
overhanging  ledge  and,  now,  there  is  a  hush,  but, 
almost  before  the  echo  of  their  last  notes  has  died, 
forth  bursts  a  wild  storm  of  canine  music.  Rey- 
nard is  afoot;  or,  as  we  Yankees  say,  "The  fox 
is  started,"  and  the  reeking  scent  of  his  recent 
footsteps  steams  hot  in  the  nostrils  of  his  pur- 
suers. The  hounds  are  now  out  of  sight,  but  you 
hear  every  note  of  their  jubilant  song  as  they 
describe  a  small  circle  beyond  the  ledge,  and  then 
go  northward  along  the  crest  of  the  hill.  Their 
baying  grows  fainter  and  fainter  as  they  bear 
away  to  the  farther  side,  till  at  last  it  is  almost 
drowned  by  the  gurgle  of  the  brook. 

Now,  get  with  all  speed  to  "the  Notch,"  which 
divides  the  north  from  the  south  hill,  for  this  the 
fox  will  pretty  surely  cross  when  he  comes  back, 
if  back  he  comes,  after  making  a  turn  or  two  or 
three  at  the  north  end.  On  this  habit  of  his,  of 
running  in  circles,  and  in  certain  runways  as  he 
goes  from  hill  to  hill,  or  from  wood  to  wood,  is 
founded  our  method  of  hunting  him.  If  he  "plays " 


30    FOX-HUNTING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND 

in  small  circles,  encompassing  an  acre  or  so,  as  he 
often  will  for  half  an  hour  at  a  time  before  a  slow 
dog,  you  cautiously  work  up  to  leeward  of  him  and 
try  your  chances  for  a  shot.  If  he  encircles  the 
whole  hill  or  crosses  from  hill  to  hill,  there  are 
certain  points  which  every  fox,  whether  stranger 
or  to  this  particular  woodland  born,  is  likely  to  take 
in  his  way,  but  not  sure  to  do  so.  Having  learned 
these  points  by  hearsay  or  experience,  you  take 
your  post  at  the  nearest  or  likeliest  one,  and 
between  hope  and  fear  await  your  opportunity. 
Such  a  place  is  this  Notch,  toward  which  with 
hasty  steps  and  beating  heart  you  take  your  way. 
When  the  fox  returns,  if  he  crosses  to  the  south 
hill,  he  will  come  down  that  depression  between 
the  ledges  which  you  face;  then  cross  the  brook 
and  come  straight  in  front  of  you,  toward  the 
wood-road  in  which  you  stand,  or  else  turn  off  to 
the  right  to  cross  the  road  and  go  up  that  easy 
slope  to  the  south  hill,  or  turn  to  the  left  and  cross 
on  the  other  hand.  Standing  midway  between 
these  points,  either  is  a  long  gun-shot  off,  but  it  is 
the  best  place  to  post  yourself;  so  here  take  breath 
and  steady  your  nerves. 

How  still  the  woods  are!  The  hounds  are  out 
of  hearing  a  mile  away.  No  breeze  sighs  through 
the  pines  or  stirs  the  fallen  leaves.  The  trickle  of 
the  brook,  the  penny  trumpet  of  a  nuthatch,  the 
light  hammering  of  a  downy  woodpecker  are  the 


FOX-HUNTING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND    SI 

only  sounds  the  strained  ear  catches.  All  about 
rise  the  gray  tree-trunks;  overhead,  against  the 
blue-gray  sky  is  spread  their  net  of  branches,  with 
here  and  there  a  tuft  of  russet  and  golden  and 
scarlet  leaves  caught  in  its  meshes.  At  your  feet 
on  every  side  lie  the  fading  and  faded  leaves,  but 
bearing  still  a  hundred  hues;  and  through  them 
rise  tufts  of  green  fern,  brown  stems  of  infant  trees 
and  withered  plants;  frost-blackened  beech-drops, 
spikes  of  the  dull  azure  berries  of  the  blue  cohosh, 
and  milk-white  ones,  crimson-stemmed,  of  the 
white  cohosh;  scarlet  clusters  of  wild  turnip  ber- 
ries; pale  asters  and  slender  goldenrod,  but  all  so 
harmoniously  blended  that  no  one  object  stands 
forth  conspicuously.  So  kindly  does  Nature  screen 
her  children  that  in  this  pervading  gray  and  russet, 
beast  and  bird,  blossom  and  gaudy  leaf,  may  lurk 
unnoticed  almost  at  your  feet.  The  rising  sun 
begins  to  glorify  the  tree-tops.  And  now  a  red 
squirrel  startles  you,  rustling  noisily  through  the 
leaves.  He  scrambles  up  a  tree,  and  with  nervous 
twitches  of  feet  and  tail  snickers  and  scolds  till 
you  feel  almost  wicked  enough  to  end  his  clatter 
with  a  charge  of  shot.  A  blue  jay  has  spied  you  and 
comes  to  upbraid  you  with  his  discordant  voice. 
A  party  of  chickadees  draws  nigh,  flitting  close 
about  and  pecking  the  lichened  trunks  and 
branches  almost  within  arm's  length,  satisfying 
curiosity  and  hunger  together. 


32    FOX-HUNTING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND 

At  last,  above  the  voices  of  these  garrulous  vis- 
itors, your  ear  discerns  the  baying  of  the  hounds, 
faint  and  far  away,  swelling,  dying,  swelling,  but 
surely  drawing  nearer.  Louder  rings  the  "musical 
confusion  of  hounds  and  echo  in  conjunction," 
as  the  dogs  break  over  the  hill-top.  Now,  eyes 
and  ears,  look  and  listen  your  sharpest.  Bring 
the  butt  of  your  gun  to  your  shoulder  and  be 
motionless  and  noiseless  as  death,  for  if  at  two 
gun-shots  off  Reynard  sees  even  the  movement  of 
a  hand  or  a  turn  of  the  head,  he  will  put  a  tree- 
trunk  between  you  and  him,  and  vanish  altogether 
and  "leave  you  there  lamenting." 

Is  that  the  patter  of  feet  in  the  dry  leaves  or 
did  the  sleeping  air  awake  enough  to  stir  them? 
Is  that  the  fox?  Pshaw!  no  —  only  a  red  squirrel 
scurrying  along  a  fallen  tree.  Is  that  quick,  muffled 
thud  the  drum  of  a  partridge?  No,  it  never  reaches 
the  final  roll  of  his  performance.  It  is  only  the 
beating  of  your  own  heart.  But  now  you  hear  the 
unmistakable  nervous  rustle  of  Reynard's  foot- 
steps in  the  leaves;  now  bounding  with  long  leaps, 
now  picking  his  way;  now  unheard  for  an  instant 
as  he  halts  to  listen.  A  yellow-red  spot  grows  out 
of  the  russet  leaves,  and  that  is  he,  coming  straight 
toward  you.  A  gun-shot  and  a  half  away,  he  stops 
on  a  knoll  and  turns  halfway  around  to  listen  for 
the  dogs.  In  awful  suspense  you  wonder  if  he  will 
come  right  on  or  sheer  off  and  baffle  you.  But  a 


FOX-HUNTING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND    S3 

louder  sounding  of  the  charge  by  his  pursuers 
sends  him  onward  right  toward  you.  His  face  is 
a  study  as  he  gallops  leisurely  along  listening  and 
plotting.  He  picks  his  way  for  a  few  yards  along 
the  outcropping  stones  in  the  bed  of  the  brook, 
and  then  begins  to  climb  the  slope  diagonally  to- 
ward you.  He  is  only  fifty  yards  off  when  you 
raise  the  muzzle  of  your  gun,  drop  your  cheek  to 
the  stock,  and  aim  a  little  forward  of  his  nose; 
your  finger  presses  the  trigger  and  while  the  loud 
report  is  rebounding  from  wood  to  hill,  you  peer 
anxiously  through  the  hanging  smoke  to  learn 
whether  you  have  cause  for  joy  or  mortification. 
Ah !  there  he  lies,  done  to  death,  despite  his  speed 
and  cunning.  The  old  dog  follows  his  every  foot- 
step to  the  spot  where  he  lies,  stops  for  a  breath 
in  a  half  surprise  as  he  comes  upon  him,  then 
seizes  him  by  the  back,  shaking  him  savagely,  and 
biting  him  from  shoulders  to  hips.  Let  him  mouth 
his  fallen  foe  to  his  heart's  content,  no  matter  how 
he  rumples  the  sleek  fur;  it  is  his  only  recompense 
for  the  faithful  service  he  has  so  well  performed. 
And  now  the  young  dog  comes  up  and  claims  his 
reward,  and  be  sure  this  morning's  work  will  go 
far  toward  making  him  as  stanch  and  true  as  his 
chase-worn  leader. 

The  shade  of  sadness  for  a  moment  indulged 
over  the  vigorous  life  so  suddenly  ended  by  your 
shot  is  but  a  passing  cloud  on  the  serene  happiness 


34    FOX-HUNTING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND 

you  feel  at  having  acquitted  yourself  so  well.  If 
you  had  missed  him,  it  would  have  been  but  small 
consolation  to  think  the  fox  was  safe.  The  hounds 
having  had  their  just  dues  in  mouthing  and  shak- 
ing, you  strip  off  Reynard's  furry  coat  —  for  if 
English  lords  may,  without  disgrace,  sell  the  game 
they  kill  in  their  battues,  surely  a  humble  Yankee 
fox-hunter  may  save  and  sell  the  pelt  of  his  fox 
without  incurring  the  stigma  of  "pot-hunter." 
At  least  he  may  bear  home  the  brush  with  skin 
attached,  as  a  trophy. 

But  think  not  thus  early  nor  with  such  success- 
ful issue  is  every  chase  to  close.  This  was  ended 
before  the  fox  had  used  any  other  trick  for  baffling 
the  hounds  but  his  simplest  one  of  running  in 
circles.  An  hour  or  two  later,  an  old  fox,  finding 
the  dogs  still  holding  persistently  to  all  the  wind- 
ings of  his  trail,  would  have  sped  away  to  another 
hill  or  wood  a  mile  or  so  off,  and  would  have 
crossed  newly  ploughed  fields,  the  fresh  earth 
leaving  no  tell-tale  scent;  would  have  taken  to 
traveled  highways,  where  dust  and  the  hoofs  of 
horses  and  the  footsteps  of  men  combine  to  ob- 
literate the  traces  of  his  passage;  or  have  trod 
gingerly  along  many  lengths  of  the  top  rails  of  a 
fence  and  then  have  sprung  off  at  right  angles 
from  it  to  the  ground,  ten  feet  away;  and  then, 
perhaps,  have  run  through  a  flock  of  sheep,  the 
strong  odor  of  whose  feet  blots  out  the  scent  of  his. 


FOX-HUNTING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND    85 

These  artifices  quite  bewilder  and  baffle  the  young 
dog,  but  only  delay  the  elder  who  knows  of  old 
the  tricks  of  foxes.  Nothing  can  be  more  admirable 
than  the  manner  of  his  working  as  he  comes  to  the 
edge  of  the  ploughed  field.  He  wastes  no  time  in 
useless  pottering  among  the  fresh-turned  furrows, 
but  with  rapid  lopes  skirts  their  swarded  border, 
till,  at  a  far  corner,  his  speed  slackens  as  his  keen 
nose  catches  the  scent  again  in  the  damp  grass;  he 
snuffs  at  it  an  instant  to  assure  himself,  then 
sounds  a  loud,  melodious  note,  and  goes  on  baying 
at  every  lope  till  the  road  is  reached.  Along  this 
he  zigzags  till  he  finds  where  the  fox  has  left  it. 
And  now  comes  the  puzzling  bit  of  fence.  The  old 
dog  thinks  the  fox  has  gone  through  it;  he  goes 
through  it  himself,  but  finds  no  scent  there;  puz- 
zles about  rapidly,  now  trying  this  side,  now  that; 
at  last  he  bethinks  himself  of  the  top,  to  which  he 
clambers  and  there  finds  the  missing  trail.  But' 
his  big  feet  cannot  tread  the  "giddy  footing"  of 
the  rail  as  could  Reynard's  dainty  pads,  so  down 
he  goes  and  tries  on  either  side  for  the  point  where 
the  fox  left  the  fence.  Ranging  up  and  down,  too 
near  it  to  hit  the  spot  where  Reynard  struck  the 
ground,  he  fails  to  recover  the  scent,  stops  — 
raises  his  nose  and  utters  a  long,  mournful  howl, 
half  vexation,  hah*  despair.  Now  he  climbs  to  the 
top  rail  farther  on  and  snuffs  it  there.  "No  taint 
of  a  fox's  foot  is  here,"  so  he  reasons,  "and  he  must 


86    FOX-HUNTING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND 

have  jumped  from  the  fence  between  here  and 
the  place  where  I  found  it,"  and  acting  on  this 
logical  conclusion,  he  circles  widely  till  he  has 
picked  up  the  trail  once  more,  and  goes  merrily 
on  to  the  sheep  pasture.  Here,  satisfying  himself 
of  the  character  of  this  trick,  he  adopts  the  same 
plan  employed  at  the  ploughed  field,  and  after 
a  little  finds  the  trail  on  the  other  side  and  follows 
it  to  the  hill,  but  more  slowly  now,  for  the  fox  has 
been  gone  some  time;  the  frost  has  melted,  the 
moisture  is  exhaling  and  the  scent  growing  cold. 

The  fox  has  long  since  reached  the  hill  and  hah* 
encircled  it,  and  now  hearing  the  voices  of  the 
hounds  so  far  away  and  so  slowly  nearing,  has  be- 
stowed himself  on  the  mossy  cushion  of  a  knoll  for 
rest  and  cogitation.  Here  he  lies  for  a  half-hour 
or  more,  but  always  alert  and  listening  while  the 
dogs  draw  slowly  on,  now  almost  losing  the  trail 
on  a  dry  ledge,  now  catching  it  in  a  moist,  propi- 
tious hollow,  till  at  last  a  nearer  burst  warns  poor 
sly-boots  that  he  must  again  up  and  away.  He 
may  circle  about  or  "  play,"  as  we  term  it,  on  this 
hill,  till  you  have  reached  a  runway  on  it  where 
you  may  get  a  shot;  or,  when  you  have  toiled 
painfully  up  the  steep  western  pitch  and  have  just 
reached  the  top,  blown,  leg-weary,  but  expectant, 
he  will,  probably,  utterly  disappoint  and  exasper- 
ate you  by  leaving  this  hill  and  returning  to  the 
one  he  and  you  have  so  lately  quitted,  yea,  he  will 


FOX-HUNTING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND    37 

even  intensify  the  bitterness  of  your  heart  by  tak- 
ing in  his  way  one  or  two  or  three  points  where 
you  were  standing  half  an  hour  ago!  What  is  to 
be  done?  He  may  run  for  hours  now  on  the  hill 
where  he  was  started,  or  he  may  be  back  here 
again  before  the  hunter  can  have  regained  that. 
To  hesitate  may  be  to  lose,  may  be  to  gain,  the 
coveted  shot.  One  must  choose  as  soon  as  may 
be  and  take  his  chances.  If  two  persons  are  hunt- 
ing in  company,  one  should  keep  to  this  hill,  the 
other  to  that,  or  while  on  the  same  hill,  or  in 
the  same  wood,  each  to  his  chosen  runway,  thus 
doubling  the  chances  of  a  shot. 

At  last  the  hounds  may  be  heard  baying  con- 
tinuously in  one  place,  and  by  this  and  their  pe- 
culiar intonation,  one  may  know  that  the  fox, 
finding  his  tricks  unavailing,  has  run  to  earth,  or, 
as  we  have  it,  "has  holed."  Guided  to  his  retreat 
by  the  voices  of  the  hounds,  you  find  them  there, 
by  turns  baying  angrily  and  impatiently  and 
tearing  away,  tooth  and  nail,  the  obstructing  roots 
and  earth.  If  in  a  sandy  or  loamy  bank,  the  fox 
may,  with  pick  and  spade,  be  dug  ignominiously 
forth,  but  this  savors  strongly  of  pot-hunting.  If 
he  has  taken  sanctuary  in  a  rocky  den,  where  pick 
and  spade  avail  not,  there  is  nothing  for  it  but  to 
call  the  dogs  off  and  try  for  another  fox  to-day,  or 
for  this  one  to-morrow,  when  he  shall  have  come 
forth  again.  This  is  the  manlier  part,  in  either 


38    FOX-HUNTING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND 

case  for  Reynard  has  fairly  baffled  you,  has  run 
his  course  and  reached  his  goal  in  safety. 

Sometimes  an  old  fox,  when  he  hears  the  first 
note  of  the  hounds  on  the  trail  he  made  when  he 
was  mousing  under  the  paling  stars,  will  arise 
from  his  bed  and  make  off  at  once  over  dry  ledges, 
ploughed  fields,  and  sheep  pastures,  leaving  for 
the  dogs  nothing  but  a  cold,  puzzling  scent,  which, 
growing  fainter  as  the  day  advances  and  the  mois- 
ture exhales,  they  are  obliged,  unwillingly,  to  aban- 
don at  last,  after  hours  of  slow  and  painstaking 
work.  A  wise  old  hound  will  often,  in  such  cases, 
give  over  trying  to  work  up  the  uncertain  trail, 
and  guessing  at  the  direction  the  fox  has  taken, 
push  on,  running  mute,  at  the  top  of  his  speed  to 
the  likeliest  piece  of  woodland,  a  mile  away,  per- 
haps, and  there  with  loud  rejoicings  pick  up  the 
trail.  When  after  a  whole  day's  chase,  during 
which  hope  and  disappointment  have  often  and 
rapidly  succeeded  each  other  in  the  hunter's 
breast,  having  followed  the  fox  with  untiring  zeal 
through  all  the  crooks  and  turns  of  his  devious 
course,  and  unraveled  with  faultless  nose  and 
the  sagacity  born  of  thought  and  experience  his 
every  trick  —  the  good  dogs  bring  him  at  the  last 
moment  of  the  gloaming  within  range,  and  by  the 
shot,  taken  darkling,  Reynard  is  tumbled  dead 
among  the  brown  leaves,  great  is  the  exultation  of 
hunter  and  hound,  and  great  the  happiness  that 


FOX-HUNTING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND    39 

fills  their  hearts.  After  tramping  since  early 
morning  over  miles  of  the  likeliest  "starting- 
places"  without  finding  any  trail  but  cold  and 
scentless  ones  made  in  the  early  night,  and  so  old 
that  the  dogs  cannot  work  them  out,  as  the  hunter 
takes  his  way  in  the  afternoon  through  some  piece 
of  woodland,  his  hounds,  as  discouraged  as  he, 
with  drooping  tails  and  increased  sorrow  in  their 
sad  faces,  plodding  dejected  at  heel  or  ranging 
languidly,  it  is  a  happy  surprise  to  have  them  halt. 
With  raised  muzzles  and  half-closed  eyes,  they 
snuff  the  air,  then  draw  slowly  up  wind  with  ele- 
vated noses,  till  they  are  lost  to  sight  behind  gray 
trunks  and  mossy  logs  and  withered  brakes,  and 
then,  with  a  crashing  flourish  of  trumpets,  they 
announce  that  at  last  a  fox  has  been  found,  traced 
to  his  lair  by  a  breeze-borne  aroma  so  subtle  that 
the  sense  which  detects  it  is  a  constant  marvel.  A 
fox  started  so  late  in  the  day  seems  loath  to  leave 
his  wood,  and  is  apt  to  play  there  till  a  shot  gives 
hunter  and  hounds  their  reward. 

When  one  sees  in  the  snow  the  intricate  wind- 
ings and  crossings  and  recrossings  of  the  trail  of 
a  mousing  fox,  he  can  but  wonder  how  any  dog 
by  his  nose  alone  can  untangle  such  a  knotted 
thread  till  it  shall  lead  him  to  the  place  where  the 
fox  has  laid  up  for  the  day;  yet  this  a  good  hound 
will  unerringly  do  if  the  scent  has  not  become  too 
cold.  To  see  him  do  this  and  to  follow  all  his  care- 


40    FOX-HUNTING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND 

ful,  sagacious  work  are  in  no  wise  the  least  of  the 
pleasures  of  this  sport. 

It  is  a  favorite  season  for  fox-hunting  when  the 
first  snows  have  fallen,  for  though  the  walking  is 
not  so  good,  and  hounds  are  often  much  inclined 
to  follow  the  track  by  sight  as  well  as  by  smell,  the 
tell-tale  footprints  show  pretty  plainly  which  way 
the  fox  has  gone,  how  long  he  has  been  gone,  and 
whether  it  is  worth  your  while  to  allow  the  dogs 
to  follow  his  trail;  and  you  are  enabled  to  help  the 
hounds  in  puzzling  places,  though  a  dog  of  wisdom 
and  experience  seldom  needs  help,  except  for  the 
saving  of  time.  A  calm  day  is  always  best,  and  if 
warm  enough  for  the  snow  to  pack  without  being 
at  all  "sposhy,"  so  much  the  better.  Though  it  is 
difficult  to  "start"  a  fox  during  a  heavy  snowfall, 
if  you  do  start  him  he  is  pretty  certain  to  "play" 
beautifully,  seeming  to  reckon  much  on  the  oblit- 
eration of  his  track  by  the  falling  snow.  At  such 
times  he  will  often  circle  an  hour  in  the  compass  of 
two  or  three  acres.  Glare  ice  holds  scent  scarcely 
more  than  water.  This  no  one  knows  better  than 
the  fox,  and  you  may  be  sure  he  will  now  profit  by 
this  knowledge  if  naked  ice  can  be  found.  He 
will  also  run  in  the  paths  of  the  hare,  pick  his  way 
carefully  along  rocky  ridges,  which  have  been 
swept  bare  of  snow  by  the  wind,  leaving  no  visible 
trace  of  his  passage,  and,  at  times,  take  to  traveled 
highways.  If  the  snow  is  deep  and  light  so  that  he 


FOX-HUNTING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND    41 

sinks  into  it,  he  will  soon,  through  fatigue  or  fear 
of  being  caught,  take  refuge  in  den  or  burrow.  If 
the  snow  has  a  crust  which  bears  him,  but  through 
which  the  heavier  hounds  break  at  every  step,  he 
laughs  them  to  scorn  as  he  trips  leisurely  along  at  a 
tantalizingly  short  distance  before  them.  Hunting 
in  such  seasons  is  weary  work,  and  more  desirable, 
,  then,  is  the  solace  of  book  and  pipe  by  the  cozy  fire- 
side, where  the  hounds  lie  sleeping  and  dreaming  of 
glorious  days  of  sport  already  past  or  soon  to  come. 
In  winter  as  in  autumn,  the  sport  is  invigorat- 
ing and  exciting,  and  Nature  has,  now  as  ever,  her 
endless  beauties  and  secrets  for  him  who  hath  eyes 
to  behold  them.  To  such  they  are  manifold  in  all 
seasons  and  he  is  feasted  full,  whether  from  the 
bald  hill-top  he  looks  forth  over  a  wide  expanse  of 
gorgeous  woods  and  fields,  still  green  under  Octo- 
ber skies,  or  sees  them  brown  and  sere  through 
the  dim  November  haze,  or  spread  white  and  far 
with  December  snows.    The  truest  sportsman  is 
not  a  mere  skillful  butcher,  who  is  quite  unsatis- 
fied if  he  returns  from  the  chase  without  blood  upon 
his  garments,  but  he  who  bears  home  from  field  and 
forest  something  better  than  game  and  peltry  and 
the  triumph  of  a  slayer,  and  who  counts  the  day  not 
lost  nor  ill  spent  though  he  can  show  no  trophy  of 
his  skill.  The  beautiful  things  seen,  the  ways  of 
beasts  and  birds  noted,  are  what  he  treasures  far 
longer  than  the  number  of  successful  shots. 


DANVIS  FARM  LIFE 

POETS  have  sung  the  delights  of  the  farmer's  life 
in  strains  so  enchanting  that  one  might  wonder 
why  all  the  world  has  not  forsaken  every  other 
pursuit  and  betaken  itself  to  the  tilling  of  the  soil. 
But  the  farmer  himself,  in  the  unshaded  hay-field, 
or  plodding  in  the  clayey  furrow  at  the  tail  of  his 
plough,  with  a  freeholder's  right  sticking  to  each 
boot,  or  bending,  with  aching  back,  between  the 
corn-rows,  or  breasting  the  winter  storms  in  the 
performance  of  imperative  duties,  looks  at  his 
life  from  a  different  point  of  view.  To  him  this 
life  appears  as  full  of  toil  and  care  and  evil  chances 
as  that  of  any  other  toiler.  And  true  it  is,  the  life 
of  an  ordinary  farmer  is  hard,  with  too  little  to 
soften  it — too  much  of  work,  too  little  of  play.  But 
as  true  is  what  the  poet  sang  so  long  ago :  "  Thrice 
happy  are  the  husbandmen  if  they  could  but  see 
their  blessings";  for  they  have  independence, 
more  than  any  others  who  by  the  sweat  of  the 
brow  earn  their  bread,  and  the  pure  air  of  heaven 
to  breathe,  and  the  blessed  privilege  of  daily  com- 
munion with  nature. 

It  is  not  easy  for  the  farmer  to  see  any  beauty 
in  his  enemies  —  the  meadows  full  of  daisies,  with 
which  he  is  forever  fighting,  or  by  which  he  has 


DANVIS  FARM  LIFE  43 

been  ignominiously  conquered;  the  encroaching 
ranks  of  goldenrods  along  the  borders  of  his  fields, 
and  the  bristling  bayonets  of  those  Canadian  in- 
vaders, the  thistles.  How  few  farmers,  or  other 
people  for  that  matter,  see  in  the  climbing  blushes 
of  the  dawning  day,  or  the  gorgeous  painting  of 
its  close,  or  in  the  perfect  day  itself,  anything  but 
the  foretelling  of  fair  or  foul  weather;  or  notice  the 
ways  of  any  untamed  bird  or  beast,  except  that 
the  crows  come  to  pull  the  corn,  the  hawks  to 
catch  the  chickens,  and  the  foxes  to  steal  the 
lambs  and  turkeys.  However,  the  farmer  gen- 
erally does  feel  a  thrill  of  pleasure  when,  in  the 
hazy  softness  of  a  February  or  March  day,  he 
hears  the  caw  of  the  first  carrion-seeking,  hungry 
crow.  "The  heart  of  winter  is  broken."  In  April 
when  the  fields  begin  to  show  a  suspicion  of  com- 
ing green  and  give  forth  an  odor  of  spring,  and 
the  dingy  snowbanks  along  the  fences  are  daily 
dwindling,  he  welcomes  the  carol  of  the  first  blue- 
bird, and  is  glad  to  hear  the  robin  utter  his  rest- 
less note  from  the  boughs  of  the  old  apple-tree; 
and  the  clear  voice  of  the  new-come  meadowlark 
strikes  him  as  not  altogether  unmusical;  and  when 
he  hears  the  plaintive  cry  of  the  grass-plover  he 
is  sure  spring  has  come.  Then  he  thinks  of  the 
small  birds  no  more  till  the  first  blasts  of  return- 
ing winter  sweep  over  the  bare  trees  and  frozen 
fields,  when,  all  at  once,  he  becomes  aware  that 


44  DANVIS  FARM  LIFE 

the  troubadours  are  gone.  He  sees  that  the  brave 
little  chickadee  remains  faithful  to  his  post,  and 
feels  that  his  cheery  note  enlivens  a  little  the 
dreariness  of  winter,  as  does  the  reedy  piping  of  the 
nuthatch  and  the  voice  of  the  downy,  fuller  of 
life  than  of  music,  and  the  discordant  note  of  the 
blue  jay,  who,  clad  in  a  bit  of  summer  sky,  loudly 
proclaims  his  presence;  but  the  singers  are  gone 
and  the  farmer  misses  them. 

Winter  is  fairly  upon  us  at  last,  though  by  such 
gradual  approaches  has  it  come  that  we  are  hardly 
aware  of  its  presence,  for  its  white  seal  is  not  yet 
set  upon  the  earth.  Till  then  we  have  a  feeling 
that  the  fall  is  not  over.  The  mud  of  the  highways 
is  turned  to  stone,  the  bare  gray  trees  and  dun 
fields  have  no  semblance  of  hie  in  them,  and  the 
dull,  cold  sky  and  the  black-green  pines  and  hem- 
locks look  colder  than  snow.  The  Thanksgiving 
turkey  has  been  disposed  of,  and  the  young  folks 
begin  to  count  the  days  to  Christmas.  The  old 
house  has  been  "banked"  for  weeks,  making  the 
cellar  a  rayless  dungeon,  from  which  cider  and 
winter  apples  are  now  brought  forth  to  help  while 
away  the  long  evenings.  At  no  time  of  the  day  is 
the  fire's  warmth  unwelcome.  But  no  snow  has 
come  except  in  brief  flurries;  and  the  cattle  are 
out  on  the  meadows  in  the  daytime  cropping  the 
withered  aftermath,  and  the  sheep  are  yet  in  the 
pastures  or  straying  in  the  bordering  woods. 


DANVIS  FARM  LIFE  45 

But  now  comes  an  afternoon  with  a  breathless 
chill  in  it  —  "a  hard,  dull  bitterness  of  cold"; 
when  the  gray  sky  settles  down  upon  the  earth, 
covering,  first,  the  blue,  far-away  mountains  with 
a  gray  pall,  then  the  nearer,  somber  hills  with  a 
veil  through  which  their  rough  outlines  show  but 
dimly,  and  are  quite  hidden  when  the  coming 
snowfall  makes  phantoms  of  the  sturdy  trees  in 
the  woods  hard  by.  Then  roofs  and  roads  and 
fence-tops  and  grassless  ground  begin  slowly  to 
whiten,  and  boughs  and  twigs  are  traced  with  a 
faint  white  outline  against  a  gray  background,  and 
the  dull  yellow  of  the  fields  grows  paler  under  the 
falling  snow,  and  a  flock  of  snowbirds  drifts  across 
the  fading  landscape  like  larger  snowflakes.  The 
nightfall  comes  early,  and  going  out  on  the  back 
stoop  you  find  yourself  on  a  little  island  in  a  great 
sea  of  misty  whiteness,  out  of  which  looms  dimly 
the  dusky  barn,  with  its  freight  of  live-stock, 
grain,  and  hay,  the  only  ship  within  hail. 

Aroused  next  morning  by  the  stamping  feet  of 
the  first  risers  who  have  gone  forth  to  explore,  we 
find  that  a  new  world  seems  to  have  drifted  to  us 
while  we  were  lying  fast  anchored  to  the  old  chim- 
ney. Roofs  are  heaped  and  fences  coped  and  trees 
are  whiter  than  in  May  with  bloom,  with  the  uni- 
versal snow.  The  great  farm-wagon,  standing 
half  hub-deep  in  it,  looks  as  out  of  place  as  if  at 
sea.  The  dazed  fowls  peer  wonderingly  from  the 


46  DANVIS  FARM  LIFE 

poultry-house,  or,  adventuring  short  trips  there- 
from, stop  bewildered  midway  in  their  journey. 
Presently  the  gray  objects  rising  out  of  the  strange 
white  expanse  take  on  more  familiar  shapes,  and 
we  recognize  the  barn,  the  orchard  (though  it  has 
an  unsubstantial  look,  as  if  the  first  wind  might 
blow  it  away  or  an  hour's  warm  sunshine  melt  it), 
the  well-known  trees,  the  neighbors'  houses,  the 
faint  lines  of  the  fences  tracing  the  boundaries  of 
fields  and  farms,  the  woods,  and  beyond  them  the 
unchanged  outlines  of  wooded  hills  and  the  far- 
away mountains,  but  with  a  new  ruggedness  in 
their  sides  and  with  new  clearings,  till  now  un- 
known, showing  forth  in  white  patches  on  their 
slopes.  We  may  take  our  time,  for  we  shall  have 
long  months  in  which  to  get  acquainted  with  this 
changed  world. 

The  first  day  of  snow  is  a  busy  one.  If  the  snow- 
fall is  great,  there  are  paths  to  be  shoveled  to 
the  outbuildings,  and  wagons  to  be  housed,  and 
sleighs  to  be  got  out  and  made  ready,  and  many 
little  jobs,  put  off  from  time  to  time,  to  be  at- 
tended to.  Perhaps  there  are  young  cattle,  home- 
less and  unfed  in  the  out-lot,  lowing  piteously,  to 
be  brought  to  winter  quarters,  and  sheep  to  be 
brought  home  from  their  pasture.  Happy  are  the 
boys  if  to  them  is  allotted  this  task,  for  the  sheep 
are  sure  to  have  sought  the  shelter  of  the  woods, 
and  in  the  woods  what  strange  sights  may  not  be 


DANVIS  FARM  LIFE  47 

seen!  With  trousers  tied  at  ankle  they  trudge 
across  the  white  fields,  pathless  and  untracked 
save  where  old  Dobbin,  scorning  barnyard  and 
shelter,  with  whitened  back  and  icicled  sides,  paws 
away  the  snow  down  to  the  withered  grass  which 
he  crops  with  as  great  apparent  relish  as  if  it  was 
the  herbage  of  June. 

Across  meadow  and  pasture  to  the  woodland  the 
youngsters  go,  and  take  the  old  wood-road,  now 
only  a  winding  streak  of  white  through  the  gray 
of  tree-trunks  and  outcropping  rocks,  its  autumnal 
border  of  asters,  goldenrods,  and  ferns  all  lain 
down  to  sleep  beneath  the  snow.  Here  Reynard's 
track  crosses  it,  he  having  gone  forth  hare-  or 
partridge-hunting,  and  so  lately  passed  that  the 
human  nose  can  almost  catch  the  scent  of  his  foot- 
steps— what  an  ecstatic  song  the  old  hound  would 
sing  over  it !  Here  is  the  trail  of  the  gray  squirrel, 
where  he  scampered  from  tree  to  tree  —  one  pair 
of  little  tracks  and  one  pair  of  larger  ones,  as  if 
two-legged  animals  had  made  them;  and  here  is 
a  maze  of  larger  footprints,  where  the  hare's  broad 
pads  have  made  their  faint  impress  on  the  snow. 
Jays  scream  overhead  and  chickadees  flit  from 
tree  to  tree  along  the  roadside.  Now,  almost  at 
their  feet,  a  ruffed  grouse  breaks  forth  from  his 
snowy  covering  in  a  little  whirlwind  of  his  own 
making,  and  goes  off  with  a  startling  whir  and 
clatter  through  the  snow-laden  branches,  a  dusky 


48  DANVIS  FARM  LIFE 

meteor.  From  a  near  branch  in  the  twilight  of  a 
thicket  a  great  horned  owl  flies  away,  noiseless  as 
a  ghost.  With  so  much  to  interest  them  the  boys 
almost  forget  their  errand  till  they  come  upon  the 
faint  trail  of  the  sheep.  Slowly  working  this  out, 
they  at  last  find  the  flock  wandering  aimlessly 
about  nibbling  such  twigs  and  withered  leaves 
as  are  within  their  reach.  Their  sojourn  in  the 
woods,  brief  as  it  has  been,  has  given  them  back 
something  of  the  original  wildness  of  their  race. 
They  mistrust  man  of  evil  designs  against  them 
when  they  meet  him  in  the  woods,  and  run  from 
the  sheep-call,  "ca-day!"  "ca-day!"  which  in 
the  open  fields  would  bring  them  in  an  eager 
throng  about  the  caller.  But  civilization  has  made 
them  dependent,  as  it  has  their  masters,  and  they 
flee  homeward  for  safety,  and  the  boys  follow 
them  out  through  the  snowy  arches  of  the  woods 
to  the  pasture,  and  so  home  to  the  snug  quarters 
where  they  are  to  pass  the  dead  months. 

The  first  foddering  is  bestowed  in  the  racks,  and 
all  the  woolly  crew  fall  to  with  a  will  and  a  busy 
snapping  of  many  jaws.  And  so,  at  nine  in  the 
morning  and  at  three  in  the  afternoon,  are  they 
to  be  fed  till  the  pastures  are  green  again  in  May. 

Happier  they  than  the  hardy  "native"  sheep 
of  their  owner's  grandfather,  which  had  no  shel- 
ter but  the  lee  of  the  stack  that  they  were  fed 
from  in  the  bleak  meadow,  pelted  by  cruel  winds 


DANVIS  FARM  LIFE  49 

and  sometimes  so  snowed  in  that  they  had  to 
be  released  from  their  imprisonment  by  dint  of 
much  shoveling.  This  old-time  foddering,  which 
was  the  fare  of  all  the  stock  but  the  horses  and 
working  oxen,  though  sadly  lacking  in  comfort 
for  feeder  and  fed,  was  very  picturesque:  the 
farmer,  in  blue-mixed  smock-frock  of  homespun 
woolen,  pitching  down  the  great  forkfuls  from  the 
stack;  the  kine  and  sheep  crowding  and  jostling 
for  the  first  place  on  the  leeward  side,  or  chasing 
wisps  of  wind-tossed  hay  down  wind;  then  the 
farmer  distributing  the  fodder  in  little  piles,  fol- 
lowed by  all  the  herd,  each  thinking  (as  who  does 
not?)  that  what  he  has  not  is  better  than  what  he 
has;  the  strong  making  might  right;  the  poor 
underling,  content  to  snatch  the  scant  mouthfuls, 
overrun  by  the  stronger  brethren  —  all  in  a  busy 
throng  about  the  rail  pen  from  which  rises  the 
dun  truncated  cone  of  the  stack,  their  only  har- 
bor in  the  wide,  white  sea.  A  path,  to  be  freshly 
broken  after  every  wind  or  snowfall,  leads  to  the 
water-holes,  chopped  out  every  morning  in  the 
brook,  some  furlongs  off,  whither  they  wend  their 
way  in  lazy  lines  as  the  day  grows  older.  But 
no  one  need  mourn  the  passing  away  of  this 
old  custom;  for  the  later  warm  stables,  sheds, 
and  barnyards,  with  their  contented  and  well- 
sheltered  inmates,  are  comfortable  as  well  as 
picturesque. 


50  DANVIS  FARM  LIFE 

A  pleasant  thing  to  look  upon  is  an  old  gray 
barn  with  its  clustering  sheds,  straw-stacks,  and 
well-fenced  yards;  in  this  the  cattle  taking  their 
day's  outing  from  the  stable;  in  that  the  sheep 
feeding  from  their  racks  or  chewing  the  cud  of 
contentment,  or  making  frequent  trips  to  the 
water-trough  in  the  corner. 

Inside  is  the  broad  "barn  floor,"  with  grain 
scaffolds  above  it,  and  on  one  side  a  great  "bay" 
filled  with  hay;  on  the  other,  the  stable  for  the 
cows;  and  over  this  a  "mow."  In  the  mysterious 
heights  above,  whose  dusty  gloom  is  pierced  by 
bolts  of  sunshine,  are  dimly  seen  the  cobwebbed 
rafters  and  the  deserted  nests  of  the  swallows. 

On  this  floor,  in  winter  days,  the  threshers' 
flails  are  beating  out  the  rye  with  measured  throb. 
Chanticleer  and  Partlet  and  all  their  folk  come 
to  the  wide-open  southern  doors  to  pick  the  scat- 
tered kernels,  and  the  cattle  "toss  their  white 
horns"  in  their  stanchions  and  look  with  wonder 
in  their  soft  eyes  on  this  unaccountable  pounding 
of  straw.  Then,  when  the  "cave"  (as  the  long  pile 
of  unwinnowed  gram  on  one  side  the  floor  is 
called)  has  become  so  large  as  to  narrow  too  much 
the  threshing-room,  the  fanning-mill  is  brought 
from  its  corner,  and  amid  clatter  and  clouds  of 
dust  the  gram  is  "cleaned  up"  and  carried  away 
to  the  granary.  Here,  too,  in  the  early  morning 
comes  the  farmer  or  his  man  to  fodder  the  cows 


DANVIS  FARM  LIFE  51 

by  lantern-light,  and  to  milk  the  "winter  cow" 
whose  meager,  foamless  "mess"  alone  now  fur- 
nishes the  household  all  the  milk  it  has. 

The  early  chores  done,  breakfast  comes  when 
goodman  and  goodwife,  —  as  Gervase  Markham 
delights  to  style  the  farmer  and  his  wife,  —  then* 
children  and  hired  folk,  all  gather  about  the  long 
table  in  the  big  kitchen,  and  doughty  trencher 
men  and  women  prove  themselves  every  one. 
The  fried  pork,  or  sausages,  or  beefsteak,  —  let  us 
hope  not  fried,  —  or  cold  roast  beef,  left  from 
yesterday's  dinner,  the  potatoes,  the  wheaten  and 
"rye-'n'-injun"  bread,  the  johnny-cake  or  buck- 
wheat-cakes, the  apple-sauce,  the  milk  and  the 
butter,  colored  with  October's  gold,  and  likely 
enough  the  sugar,  are  all  home-grown;  nothing 
"boughten"  but  the  tea  or  coffee  and  the  pepper 
and  salt. 

After  breakfast  the  children,  with  books  and 
dinner-pails  and  "shining  morning  faces,"  set  out 
for  school;  but  not  "creeping  unwillingly,"  for 
there  will  be  plenty  of  fun  there  at  "recess"  and 
nooning,  with  sleds  and  snowballing  and  no  end 
of  outdoor  winter  games. 

The  sheep  are  fed  and  then  some  work  of  the 
day  begins.  Perhaps  it  is  threshing  or  drawing 
wood  home  or  to  the  market  from  the  "  woodlot " 
where  a  man  is  chopping  "by  the  cord."  He  is, 
likely  enough,  a  light-hearted  "Canuck"  fresh 


52  DANVIS  FARM  LIFE 

from  his  Canadian  home,  as  yet  un-Yankeefied 
and  unspoiled;  garrulous  with  his  droll  French- 
English;  as  ready  as  another  to  laugh  at  his  own 
mistakes;  picturesque  in  his  peaked  woolen  cap 
and  coarse,  oddly  fashioned  dress  of  homespun 
gray  with  red-sashed  waist  and  moccasined  feet. 

A  skillful  wielder  of  the  axe  is  he,  and,  though  a 
passably  loyal  subject  of  a  queen,  with  no  whit  of 
reverence  for  these  ancient  monarchs  of  the  forest 
which  he  hews  down  relentlessly,  regardless  of 
their  groans  as  they  topple  to  their  fall.  He  has 
brought  an  acre  or  more  of  the  woods'  white  floor 
face  to  face  with  the  steel-blue  winter  sky,  and  all 
over  the  little  waste  are  piled  in  cords  and  half- 
cords  the  bodies  of  the  slain  kings,  about  whose 
vacant  mossed  and  lichened  thrones  are  heaped 
their  crowns  in  ignominious  piles.  He  has  a  fire, 
more  for  company  than  for  warmth,  whereat  he 
often  lights  his  short,  blackened  clay  pipe  and  sits 
by  while  he  eats  his  half -frozen  dinner  and  while 
the  smoke  fills  the  woods  about  with  a  blue  haze 
and  a  pungent  fragrance. 

Here,  now,  comes  the  farmer,  mounted  on  his 
stout  sled  with  its  long  wood-rack,  driving  his 
steaming  horses  which  he  blankets  while  he  makes 
his  load.  He  exchanges  with  the  chopper  badly 
fashioned  sentences  of  very  bad  French  for  rat- 
tling volleys  of  no  better  English,  upbraiding  him, 
perhaps,  for  piling  his  wood  with  bark  down,  or 


DANVIS  FARM  LIFE  63 

for  an  intermixture  of  crooked  and  knotty  sticks, 
—  devices  well  known  to  professional  choppers  for 
making  piles  measure  large,  —  a  charge  which  the 
Canadian  repels  with  loud  protestations  of  hon- 
esty and  frantic  gestures,  or  pretends  not  to  un- 
derstand. His  sled  laden,  the  farmer  leaves  the 
regicide  to  his  slaughter  and  wends  his  creaking 
way  homeward  along  the  gray-pillared  arcade  of 
the  narrow,  winding  wood-road,  whose  brushy 
border  scrapes  and  clatters  against  the  jagged  load 
as  it  passes.  This  and  the  muffled  tread  of  the 
horses  and  the  creaking  of  the  runners  in  the  snow, 
the  fainter-growing  axe-strokes,  and  now  and 
then  the  booming  downfall  of  a  great  tree,  are  the 
few  sounds  that  break  the  winter  stillness  of  the 
woods.  The  partridge  looks  down  on  him  from  its 
safe  perch  in  the  thick-branched  hemlock.  A  hare 
bounds  across  the  road  before  him,  as  white  and 
silent  as  the  snow  beneath  its  feet.  An  unseen  fox 
steals  away  with  noiseless  footsteps.  Driving  out 
of  the  sheltering  woods  into  the  wind-swept  fields, 
here  through  deep-drifted  hollows,  there  over 
ridges  blown  so  nearly  bare  that  the  bleached  grass 
rustles  above  the  thin  snow,  he  fares  homeward, 
or  to  the  well-beaten  highway,  and  by  it  to  the 
market  in  the  village  or  at  the  railroad. 

He  is  apt  to  tarry  long  at  the  village  store,  un- 
der the  plausible  pretext  of  getting  thoroughly 
warm,  and  likely  enough  gossips  with  neighbors 


54  DANVIS  FARM  LIFE 

or  cheapens  the  storekeeper's  wares  till  "chore- 
time  "  draws  nigh. 

Loads  of  logs  are  drawn  to  the  sawmill,  a 
quaint  old  structure  whose  mossy  beams  have 
spanned  its  swift  raceway  for  half  a  century  or 
more.  The  green  ooze  of  the  leaky  flume  turns  the 
icicles  to  spikes  of  emerald,  and  the  caves  beneath 
the  log  dam  have  crystal  portals  of  fantastic 
shapes.  Heaps  of  logs  and  piles  of  boards  and 
slabs  environ  it  on  the  landward  side,  and  a  pleas- 
ant odor  of  freshly  cut  pine  pervades  the  neigh- 
borhood. Its  interior  is  as  comfortless  in  winter 
as  a  hill-top,  "cold  as  a  sawmill"  being  a  New 
England  proverb;  and  it  is  often  said  of  one  who 
leaves  outer  doors  open  in  cold  weather,  "Guess 
he  was  brought  up  in  a  sawmill,  where  there 
wa'n't  no  doors."  It  is  a  poor  lounging-place  now 
for  our  farmer,  but  the  dusty  gristmill  hard  by 
offers  greater  attractions.  Maybe  he  has  brought 
a  grist  atop  of  his  logs,  and  has  good  excuse  to 
toast  his  shins  by  the  miller's  glowing  stove 
while  he  waits  the  grinding. 

On  the  millpond,  alder-fringed  and  overhung 
by  lithe-limbed  birches,  the  farmers  gather  their 
ice-crop,  one  that  New  England  winters  never 
fail  to  produce  most  bountifully.  Simpler  tools 
are  used  here  than  are  employed  by  the  great  ice 
companies  of  the  cities.  The  same  cross-cut  saw 
that  cuts  the  logs  with  a  man  at  each  handle  is 


DANVIS  FARM  LIFE  55 

used  here  by  one  man  (one  handle  being  taken 
out)  for  cutting  the  ice,  which  is  then  drawn  out 
of  the  water  with  ordinary  ice-tongs  and  carried 
home,  a  regal  freight  of  a  dozen  or  more  great 
blocks  of  crystal  at  a  load. 

The  hay  for  market  is  hauled  in  bulk  to  the 
large  stationary  presses  on  the  line  of  the  railroad, 
or  pressed  into  bales  by  portable  presses  set  up  at 
barns  or  stacks  and  the  bales  then  drawn  to  the 
point  of  delivery.  This  is  the  work  of  fall,  winter, 
or  spring,  as  the  case  may  be. 

The  laborious  pastime  of  breaking  colts  is  now 
in  order  and  the  younger  ones  are  broken  to  the 
halter,  the  older  to  harness,  often  in  the  shafts 
of  a  primitive  sleigh  commonly  known  as  a 
"jumper,"  each  thill  and  runner  of  which  is  formed 
of  one  tough  sapling  cut  halfway  through,  with  a 
wide  notch  at  the  point  where  runner  becomes 
thill.  The  boys  may  take  a  pull  at  the  long  halter 
of  the  stubborn  youngster,  but  a  stronger  hand 
than  theirs  must  give  the  two-year-old  or  three- 
year-old  initiatory  lessons  in  his  life  of  labor. 

On  Saturdays,  when  there  is  no  school,  the  boys 
sometimes  have  a  jolly  time  breaking  a  pair  of 
steer  calves.  A  miniature  yoke  couples  the  stubby- 
horned,  pot-bellied  little  cattle  together,  and  the 
boy's  sled  is  their  light  burden.  A  runaway  of  the 
baby  oxen  is  not  unlikely  to  occur,  but  only  adds 
to  the  fun  of  the  affair. 


56  DANVIS  FARM  LIFE 

In  such  pursuits  the  day  passes  till  foddering- 
time  comes,  when  the  sheep-racks  are  cleared  of 
"orts"  which  are  thrown  outside  the  yard  for 
Dobbin  to  glean  from,  and  the  sheep  foddered 
afresh  from  the  mow.  The  cows  are  stabled  and 
fed.  The  clamor  of  the  pigs  ceases  as  then*  troughs 
are  filled  with  swill.  The  horses  are  cared  for,  the 
night's  wood  carried  in,  and  then  with  supper 
begins  the  long  winter  evening. 

The  bustling  hired  girl  clears  the  table  and 
washes  the  dishes  with  tremendous  clatter,  gives 
the  kitchen  its  last  sweeping  for  the  day,  and  then, 
if  she  has  not  dough  to  knead  for  the  morrow's 
baking,  makes  herself  tidy  and  settles  herself  com- 
fortably to  her  sewing.  The  goodwife  knits  or 
sews  while  she  chats  with  her  maid  or  listens  to 
the  items  her  goodman  reads  from  the  local  paper; 
the  youngsters  puzzle  with  knitted  brows  over 
the  sums  of  to-morrow's  'rithmetic  lesson;  the 
hired  man  munches  apples  and  smokes  his  pipe 
while  he  toasts  his  stockinged  feet  at  the  great 
cook-stove,  beneath  which  Tray  and  Tubby  snore 
and  purr  in  peaceful  unison. 

Though  every  farmhouse  now  has  its  sitting- 
room  and  parlor,  and  most  a  dining-room,  the 
kitchen  continues  to  be  a  favorite  with  farming 
folk  —  a  liking  probably  inherited  from  our  grand- 
fathers. In  many  of  their  houses  this  was  the  only 
large  room,  in  which  the  family  lived,  and  where 


DANVIS  FARM  LIFE  57 

all  meals  "were  taken,  guests  entertained,  and 
merry-makings  held.  At  one  end  was  the  great 
fireplace  wherein  back-log  and  fore-stick  burned, 
sending  forth  warmth  and  light,  intense  and  bright 
over  the  broad  hearth,  but  growing  feebler  to- 
ward the  dim  corners  where  Jack  Frost  lurked  and 
grotesque  shadows  leaped  and  danced  on  the  wall. 
On  the  crane,  suspended  by  hook  or  trammel, 
hung  the  big  samp-kettle,  bubbling  and  seeth- 
ing. The  open  dresser  shone  with  polished  pewter 
mug  and  trencher.  Old-fashioned,  splint -bottomed 
chairs,  rude  but  comfortable,  sent  their  long  shad- 
ows across  the  floor. 

The  tall  clock  measured  the  moments  with  de- 
liberate tick.  The  big  wheel  and  little,  the  one  for 
wool,  the  other  for  flax;  the  poles  overhead,  with 
their  garniture  of  winter  crooknecks  and  festoons 
of  dried  apples;  the  long-barreled  flintlock  that 
had  borne  its  part  in  Indian  fight,  at  Bennington, 
and  in  many  a  wolf  and  bear  hunt,  hanging  with 
powder-horn  and  bullet-pouch  against  the  chim- 
ney —  all  these  made  up  a  homely  interior  far 
more  picturesque  than  any  to  be  found  in  mod- 
ern farmhouses.  Those  who  remember  old-time 
cookery  aver  that  in  these  degenerate  days  there 
are  no  johnny-cakes  so  sweet  as  those  our  grand- 
mothers baked  on  a  board  on  the  hearth,  no  roast 
meats  so  juicy  as  those  which  slowly  turned  on 
spits  before  the  open  fire,  nor  any  brown  bread  or 


58  DANVIS  FARM  LIFE 

baked  beans  to  compare  with  those  which  the  old 
brick  ovens  and  bake-kettles  gave  forth. 

In  those  old  kitchens  that  have  partly  with- 
stood the  march  of  improvement,  the  great  fire- 
place has  fallen  into  disuse.  Oftener  it  has  been 
torn  down,  chimney,  oven,  and  all,  to  make  room, 
now  deemed  better  than  its  company,  and  its 
place  supplied  by  the  more  convenient  cook-stove. 
The  woodwork  is  painted,  the  smoke-stained 
whitewash  is  covered  by  figured  wall-paper;  and- 
irons, crane,  pot-hook,  and  trammel  have  gone 
for  old  iron;  the  place  of  the  open  dresser  is 
usurped  by  a  prim  closed  cupboard;  big  and  little 
wheel,  relics  of  an  almost  lost  and  forgotten 
handicraft,  have  long  since  been  banished  to  the 
garret.  There,  too,  has  gone  the  ancient  clock, 
and  a  short,  dapper  timepiece,  on  whose  lower 
half  is  a  landscape  of  startling  colors,  hurries  the 
hours  away  with  swift  loud  tick. 

Everything  has  undergone  some  change;  even 
the  old  gun  has  had  its  flintlock  altered  to  per- 
cussion. 

Of  all  the  rooms  in  our  farmhouse,  the  kitchen 
chamber  is  probably  the  least  changed.  Its 
veined  and  blistered  whitewashed  ceiling,  low 
sloping  at  the  sides,  still  bumps  unwary  heads. 
The  great  trunk  that  held  grandmother's  bedding 
when  she  and  grandfather,  newly  wedded,  moved 
into  this,  then,  wild  country,  and  the  sailor  great- 


DANVIS  FARM  LIFE  59 

uncle's  sea-chest,  occupy  their  old  corners.  The 
little  fireplace  is  unchanged  and  on  the  chimney 
above  it  hang,  as  of  old,  bundles  and  bags  of  bone- 
set,  catnip,  sage,  summer  savory,  elder-root,  slip- 
pery-elm, and  no  end  of  roots  and  herbs  for  sick 
men's  tea  and  well  men's  seasoning.  There  are 
the  same  low  beds  with  patchwork  covers  and  by 
their  side  the  small  squares  of  rag  carpet  —  little 
oases  for  naked  feet  in  the  chill  desert  of  the  bare 
floor;  and  the  light  comes  in  through  the  same 
little  dormer-windows  through  which  it  came 
seventy  years  ago.  To  this  dormitory  the  hired 
man  betakes  himself  when  his  last  pipe  is  smoked, 
and  soon,  in  nasal  trumpet-blasts,  announces  his 
arrival  in  the  Land  of  Nod,  to  which  by  nine 
o'clock  or  so  all  the  household  have  followed. 

Where  do  the  birds,  who  brave  with  us  the 
rigors  of  the  New  England  winter,  pass  the  chill 
nights,  and  where  find  harbor  from  the  pitiless 
storms?  They  are  about  the  house,  woodpile,  out- 
buildings, and  orchards  all  the  clear  cold  days 
—  downy,  nuthatch  and  chickadee  —  searching 
every  nook  and  cranny  of  the  rough-barked  locust 
and  weather-beaten  board  and  post  for  their 
scanty  fare;  and  blue  jay,  busy  with  the  frozen 
apples  or  the  droppings  of  the  granary.  But  when 
a  roaring,  raving  storm  comes  down  from  the 
north  they  vanish.  When  we  face  it  to  go  to  the 
barn  to  fodder  the  stock,  we  do  not  find  them 


60  DANVIS  FARM  LIFE 

sheltered  there;  nor  at  the  morning  foddering, 
climbing  to  the  dusky  mow,  do  we  disturb  them 
as  toward  spring  or  in  its  early  days  we  do  such 
poor  song-birds,  sparrows  and  robins,  as  have 
been  fooled  by  a  few  warm  days  into  a  too  early 
coming,  to  find  themselves  suddenly  encompassed 
by  such  bitter  weather  as  they  fled  from  months 
ago.  Doubtless  the  windless  thickets  of  the  woods 
and  the  snug  hollows  of  old  trees  are  the  shelter  of 
our  little  winter  friends  in  such  inclement  seasons. 

One  night  in  the  week,  it  may  be,  the  young 
folks  all  pack  off  in  the  big  sleigh  to  the  singing- 
school  in  the  town-house,  where  they  and  some 
scores  of  others  combine  to  murder  psalmody  and 
break  the  heart  of  their  instructor. 

At  these  gatherings  are  flirtations  and  heart- 
burnings as  well  as  at  the  "donation  parties," 
which  occur  once  or  twice  in  the  winter,  when  with 
kindly  meant  unkindness  the  poor  minister's 
house  is  taken  possession  of  by  old  and  young, 
whose  gifts  too  often  but  poorly  compensate  for 
the  upturning  and  confusion  they  have  made 
with  their  romping  games. 

So  winter  drags  its  hoary  length  through  dreary 
months,  with  silent  snowfall,  fierce  storm,  and 
dazzling  sunshine.  Mows  dwindle  and  stacks  dis- 
appear, leaving  only  the  empty  pens  to  mark  their 
place,  and  cisterns  fail,  making  the  hauling  of 
snow  for  melting  an  added  task  to  the  boys' 


DANVIS  FARM  LIFE  61 

duties.  Bucksaw  and  axe  are  each  day  making 
shorter  the  long  pile  of  cordwood  and  greater  the 
pile  of  stovewood. 

The  traditional  "January  thaw"  comes  and  sets 
all  the  brooks  a-roaring  and  makes  lakes  of  the 
flat  meadows,  while  the  south  wind  blows  with  a 
springlike  softness  and  sighs  itself  asleep.  The 
sky  clears  and  the  north  wind  awakes  and  out- 
roars  the  brooks  till  it  locks  them  fast  again  and 
turns  the  flooded  meadows  to  glittering  ice-fields 
whereon  the  boys  have  jolly  skating  bouts  in  the 
moonlit  evenings. 

Many  another  snowfall  comes,  perhaps,  but 
every  day  the  sunshine  waxes  warmer,  and  the 
snow  melts  slowly  off  the  roofs  and  becomes 
"countersunk"  about  tree-trunks  and  mullein- 
stalks.  The  tips  of  weather-beaten  grass  appear 
above  it  and  the  great  drifts  grow  dingy.  It  be- 
comes pleasant  to  linger  for  a  while  in  shirt-sleeves 
on  the  sunny  side  of  the  barn,  listening  to  the 
steady  drip  of  the  icicled  eaves  and  the  cackling 
of  hens,  and  watching  the  cattle  lazily  scratching 
themselves  and  chewing  their  cuds  in  the  genial 
warmth. 

The  first  crow  comes,  and  now,  if  never  again 
in  all  the  year,  his  harsh  voice  has  a  pleasant 
sound.  Roads  grow  "  slumpy"  and  then  so  nearly 
bare  that  people  begin  to  ponder  whether  they 
shall  go  forth  on  runners  or  wheels. 


62  DANVIS  FARM  LIFE 

Some  early  lambs  enter  upon  their  short  life, 
and  knock-kneed  calves  begin  to  make  the  old 
barn  echo  with  their  bawling  and  the  clatter  of 
their  clumsy  gambols.  The  gray  woods  take  on 
the  purple  tinge  of  swelling  buds.  The  brooks 
resume  their  merry  music.  The  song-sparrows 
come,  the  bluebird's  carol  is  heard,  the  first  robin 
ventures  to  come  exploring,  and  high  overhead 
the  wild  geese  are  winging  their  northward  way. 
Though  Jack  Frost  strives  every  night  to  regain 
his  sway  and  often  for  whole  days  maintains  a 
foothold,  his  fortunes  slowly  wane  and  spring 
comes  coyly  but  surely  on. 

Her  footsteps  waken  the  woodchuck  from  his 
long  sleep,  and  he  comes  to  his  door  to  look  about 
him,  with  eyes  unaccustomed  to  the  sunlit  day. 
In  the  plashy  snow  of  the  woods,  the  raccoon's 
track  shows  that  he  has  wandered  from  den  or 
hollow  tree.  Southern  slopes,  then  broad  fields, 
grow  bare,  till  all  the  snow  is  gone  from  them  but 
the  soiled  drifts  in  the  hollows  and  along  the 
fences;  in  the  woods  it  still  lies  deep,  but  coarse- 
grained and  watery. 

The  blood  of  the  maples  is  stirred,  and  in  sugar- 
making  regions  the  tapping  of  the  trees  is  begun. 
A  warm  day  following  a  freezing  night  sets  all 
the  spouts  a-dripping  merrily  into  the  bright  tin 
"tubs,"  and  once  or  twice  a  day  the  oxen  and  sled 
go  winding  through  the  woods,  hauling  a  cask  to 


DANVIS  FARM  LIFE  63 

which  the  sap  is  brought  from  the  trees  with 
buckets  and  neck-yoke,  and  then  taken  to  the 
sugar-house.  This  is  set,  if  possible,  at  the  foot  of 
some  hillside  or  knoll,  on  which  the  sled  may  be 
driven  so  that  its  burden  overtops  the  great  hold- 
ers standing  beside  the  boiling-pans  within.  Into 
these  holders  the  sap  is  discharged  through  a  pipe. 
Now  the  boiling  begins,  and  the  thin  sap  thickens 
to  rich  syrup  as  it  seethes  and  bubbles  in  its  slow 
course  from  the  first  pan  to  the  last,  while  the 
woods  about  are  filled  with  the  sweet  odor  of  its 
steam. 

Following  up  this  scent,  and  the  sounds  of  merry 
chatter,  one  may  come  upon  a  blithe  "sugar 
party"  of  young  folks,  gathered  in  and  about  the 
sugar-house.  In  this  earliest  picnic  of  the  season 
the  sole  refreshment  is  hot  sugar  poured  on  clean 
snow,  where  it  cools  to  a  gummy  consistency- 
known  as  "waxed"  sugar.  The  duty  of  the  rustic 
gallant  is  to  whittle  a  little  maple  paddle  (which 
is  held  to  be  the  proper  implement  for  sugar- 
eating)  for  his  mistress,  and  to  keep  her  allotted 
portion  of  the  snowbank  well  supplied  with  the 
amber-hued  sweet. 

In  earlier  days  the  sap,  caught  in  rough  wooden 
troughs,  was  boiled  in  a  potash-kettle,  suspended 
by  a  log-chain  from  the  smaller  end  of  a  goodly 
sized  tree  trimmed  of  its  branches  and  balanced 
across  a  stump.  A  few  rudely  piled  stones  formed 


64  DANVIS  FARM  LIFE 

the  fireplace,  whose  chimney  was  the  wide  air,  and 
every  veering  puff  of  wind  would  encloud  the  red- 
shirted  sugar-maker  in  the  smoke  of  his  fire  and 
the  steam  of  his  kettle.  Kettle,  fireplace,  and  pon- 
derous crane  had  no  roofing  but  the  overbranch- 
ing  trees  and  the  sky  above  them;  the  only  shelter 
of  the  sugar-makers  from  rain  and  "sugar  snows" 
was  a  little  shanty  as  rude  as  an  Indian  wigwam 
in  construction  and  furniture. 

The  woodpecker  sounds  his  rattling  drum-call; 
the  partridge  beats  his  muffled  roll;  flocks  of 
blackbirds  gurgle  a  liquid  song,  and  the  hyla  tunes 
his  shrill  pipe,  while  advancing  Spring  keeps  step 
to  their  music,  more  and  more  pervading  all  na- 
ture with  her  soft,  mysterious  presence. 

In  the  woods  the  snow  has  shrunk  to  the  cold 
shelter  of  the  ledges,  and  the  arbutus  begins  to 
blossom  half-unseen  among  its  dull  green  and 
russet  leaves,  and  liverwort  flowers  dot  the  sunny 
slopes  with  tufts  of  white,  and  pink,  and  blue. 

Sap-flow  and  sugar-making  slacken,  so  that  a 
neighbor  finds  time  to  visit  another  at  his  sugar- 
works,  and  asks,  "Have  you  heard  the  frogs?" 
Only  one  "run"  of  sap  after  the  frogs  peep  is  the 
traditional  rule.  So  the  frogs  having  peeped,  the 
last  run  comes  and  sugar-making  ends. 

A  wholesome  fragrance  is  wafted  to  you  on  the 
damp  wind,  like  and  yet  unlike  the  earth-smell 
which  precedes  a  shower  —  the  subtile  blending  of 


DANVIS  FARM  LIFE  65 

the  exhalations  of  sodden  leaves  and  quickened 
earth,  with  the  faint  perfume  of  the  shad  trees, 
shining  white  with  blossoms,  as  if  snow-laden  in 
the  purple  woods,  and  the  willow  catkins  that 
gleam  in  swamps  and  along  the  brimming  streams. 
It  is  a  purely  springlike  odor. 

The  fields  of  winter  wheat  and  rye,  if  the  snow 
has  kindly  covered  them  through  the  bitter 
weather,  take  on  a  fresher  green,  and  the  south- 
ern slopes  of  pasture-lands  and  the  swales  show 
tinges  of  it. 

The  sower  is  pacing  the  fall-ploughed  ground 
to  and  fro  with  measured  tread,  scattering  the 
seed  as  he  goes,  and,  after  him,  team  and  harrow 
scratch  the  mould.  In  favored  places  the  ploughs 
are  going,  first  streaking,  then  broadly  patching, 
the  somber  fields  with  the  rich  hue  of  freshly 
turned  sward.  Then  early  potatoes  are  planted, 
gardens  made,  corn-ground  made  ready,  and 
houses  unbanked,  letting  daylight  into  cellars 
once  more. 

All  day  long  the  lamentations  of  bereaved  cows 
are  heard.  "Settings"  of  milk  begin  to  crowd  the 
dairy,  and  churning,  that  plague  of  the  boy,  be- 
comes his  constant  alternate  dread  and  suffering. 

As  pastures  grow  green  the  sheep  are  "tagged" 
and  released  from  their  long  confinement  in  shed 
and  yard.  With  loud  rejoicings  they  go  rushing 
along  the  lane  to  the  pasture,  eager  for  the  first 


66  DANVIS  FARM  LIFE 

nibble  of  the  unforgotten  herbage.  Not  many 
days  later  the  cows  are  turned  out,  and  the  lush 
feed  turns  their  pale  butter  to  gold. 

Young  lambs  now  claim  the  farmer's  care. 
Each  day  he  must  visit  the  flock  to  see  if  some 
unnatural  mother  must  not  be  forced  to  give  suck 
to  her  forlorn  yeanling,  or  if  some,  half  dead  with 
the  cold  of  night  or  storm,  need  not  be  brought 
to  the  kitchen  fire  to  be  warmed  to  life.  When 
a  "lamb-killer"  comes,  as  the  cold  storms  are 
called  which  sometimes  occur  in  May,  his  arms  are 
likely  enough  to  be  filled  with  them  before  he  has 
made  the  round  of  the  pasture.  Often  an  or- 
phaned or  disowned  lamb  is  brought  up  by  hand, 
and  the  "cosset"  becomes  the  pet  of  the  children 
and  the  pest  of  the  household.  If  Madame  Rey- 
nard takes  a  fancy  to  spring  lamb  for  the  provi- 
sion of  her  household  she  makes  sad  havoc.  Her 
depredations  must  be  stopped  some  way,  either  by 
removing  the  flock  to  a  safer  pasture,  or,  if  her 
burrow  can  be  found,  by  digging  out  and  destroy- 
ing her  young,  leaving  her  with  no  family  to  pro- 
vide for  or  by  ending  with  her  own  life  her  free- 
booting  career.  To  compass  her  taking-off,  the 
farmer  repairs  with  his  gun,  in  the  gray  of  the 
morning,  to  the  woodside,  from  which  he  enters  the 
field  and,  hiding  behind  a  stump  to  leeward  of  her 
customary  line  of  approach,  awaits  her  coming. 
As,  on  evil  deeds  intent,  she  steals  cautiously 


DANVIS  FARM  LIFE  67 

from  the  cover  of  the  woods,  her  faded,  ragged, 
whitey-yellow  fur  is  in  sorry  contrast  with  the 
beauty  of  her  dress  when  days  were  cold  and  cares 
were  light.  The  farmer  imitates  the  squeak  of  a 
mouse.  The  sound,  though  slight,  catches  her  ear 
at  once,  and  she  draws  nearer  and  nearer  the 
stump  from  which  it  proceeds,  stopping  fre- 
quently to  listen,  with  cocked  head,  till,  when 
within  short  range,  she  is  cut  down  by  a  heavy 
charge. 

In  his  first  days  the  Merino  lamb  is  one  of 
the  homeliest  of  young  things,  pink-nosed,  lean, 
wrinkled,  and  lop-eared,  and  stumbling  about  in 
uncertain  fashion  on  its  clumsy,  sprawling  legs. 
But  a  month  or  six  weeks  of  life  give  him  prettiness 
enough  to  make  amends  for  the  ugliness  of  his 
early  infancy.  There  is  no  prettier  sight  to  be  seen 
on  the  farm  than  a  party  of  them  at  play,  toward 
the  close  of  the  day,  running  in  a  crowd  at  the  top 
of  their  speed  from  one  knoll  to  another,  then 
frisking  a  moment  in  graceful  gambols,  and  then 
scampering  back  again,  while  the  staid  matrons  of 
the  flock  look  on  in  apparent  wonder  at  their  antic 
sport. 

When  the  ditches  are  dark  green  with  young 
marsh  marigolds,  "  good  for  greens,"  it  is  a  pleas- 
ant outing  on  a  warm  day,  for  goodwife  and  chil- 
dren to  go  picking  "cowslips,"  as  they  are  sure  to 
call  them. 


68  DANVIS  FARM  LIFE 

A  thousand  banished  birds  have  come  to  their 
own  again.  The  creak  and  twitter  of  the  well-be- 
loved swallows  echo  through  the  half-empty  barn. 
Robins  and  phoebes  have  built  their  nests;  the 
advance  guard  of  bobolinks  are  rollicking  in  the 
meadows  where  the  meadowlark  pertly  walks, 
his  conspicuous  yellow  and  black  breast  belying 
his  long-drawn  "can't-see-me."  Orioles  flash 
among  the  elm  branches  where  they  are  weaving 
their  pensile  nests.  The  purple  linnet  showers  his 
song  from  the  tree-top,  and  far  and  clear  from  the 
upland  pasture  comes  the  wailing  cry  of  the  plover. 
Chickadee  has  gone  to  make  his  summer  home  in 
woods  whose  purple  gray  is  sprinkled  now  with 
golden  green,  and  where  bath-flowers  are  bloom- 
ing and  tender  shoots  are  pushing  up  through  the 
matted  leaves  of  last  year. 

The  hickory  has  given  the  sign  for  corn-plant- 
ing, for  its  leaves  are  as  large  as  a  squirrel's  ear 
(some  say,  a  squirrel's  foot).  This  important  labor 
having  been  performed,  the  grotesque  scarecrow 
is  set  at  his  post,  or  glittering  tins,  or  twine  fes- 
tooned from  stake  to  stake,  do  duty  in  his  stead. 

Now  there  comes  a  little  lull  in  work  betwixt 
planting  and  hoeing  during  which  boys  and  hired 
men  assert  their  right,  established  by  ancient 
usage,  to  take  a  day  to  go  a-fishing.  Those  whose 
country  is  blessed  with  such  streams  of  liquid 
crystal  steal  with  careful  steps  along  some  trout- 


DANVIS  FARM  LIFE  69 

brook  whose  braided  current  washes  mossy,  root- 
woven  banks,  in  old  woods,  gurgling  over  pebbly 
beds  and  plashing  down  lichened  rocks  into  pools 
where  the  wary  trout  lurks  under  the  foam  bells,  or 
slips  through  alder  copses  into  meadows  where  it 
winds  almost  hidden  by  the  rank  grass  that  over- 
hangs its  narrow  course. 

Our  rustic  angler  uses  no  nice  skill  in  playing 
or  landing  his  fish,  but  having  him  well  hooked 
jerks  him  forth  by  main  strength  of  arm  and 
clumsy  pole  and  line,  with  a  force  that  sends  him, 
whether  he  be  perch  or  bull-pout,  or,  by  lucky 
chance,  pike-perch  or  bass,  in  a  curving  flight  high 
overhead,  and  walloping  with  a  resounding  thud 
on  the  grass  far  behind  his  captor. 

Perhaps  all  hands  go  to  the  nearest  seining- 
ground,  and,  buying  a  haul,  stand  an  eager  group 
on  the  sandy  beach,  joking  feebly  while  they  nerv- 
ously wait  and  watch  the  rippling  curve  of  floats 
as  the  net  comes  sweeping  slowly  in,  bringing, 
maybe,  for  their  half-dollar,  only  a  few  worthless 
clams  and  sunfish,  or,  if  fortune  favors,  maybe  a 
floundering  crowd  of  big  fish,  which,  strung  on  a 
tough  twig,  they  carry  home  rejoicing. 

The  housewife's  fowls  are  conspicuous  objects 
now  about  the  farmhouse  —  the  anxious,  fussy 
hens,  full  of  solicitude  for  their  broods,  some,  well 
grown,  straying  widely  from  the  coop  in  adven- 
turous explorations  or  in  awkward  pursuit  of  in- 


70  DANVIS  FARM  LIFE 

sects;  some,  little  balls  of  down,  keeping  near  the 
home  threshold  and  mindful  of  the  maternal  call, 
while  Chanticleer  saunters  proudly  among  his 
wives  and  children  with  no  care  but  to  keep  an 
eye  out  for  those  swooping  pirates,  the  hawks. 
The  ducks  waddle  away  in  Indian  file  to  the  pond 
which  they  share  with  the  geese;  and  the  turkeys, 
silliest  of  fowls,  wander  far  and  wide,  an  easy  prey 
to  fox  or  hawk. 

Night  and  morning  a  persuasive  call,  "Boss! 
boss !  boss ! "  invites  the  calves  —  those  soft-eyed, 
sleek-coated,  beautiful  idiots  —  to  the  feeding 
stanchion  in  the  corner  of  their  paddock,  where 
they  receive  their  rations  of  "  skim "  milk  and 
then  solace  themselves  with  each  other's  ears  for 
the  lost  maternal  udders. 

In  the  placid  faces  of  their  mothers,  as  they 
come  swinging  homeward  from  the  pasture,  there 
is  no  sign  of  bereavement  nor  of  its  lightest 
recollection.  Happy  beasts  whose  pangs  of  sorrow 
kindly  Nature  so  quickly  heals ! 

In  the  last  of  the  blossom-freighted  days  of 
May  is  one  that  each  year  grows  dearer  to  us. 
There  is  scarcely  a  graveyard  among  our  hills  but 
has  its  little  flag,  guarding,  in  sun  and  shower,  the 
grave  of  some  soldier.  Hither  come  farmers  and 
villagers  with  evergreens  and  flowers,  no  one  so 
thoughtless  that  he  does  not  bring  a  spray  of  plum- 
blossoms  or  cluster  of  lilacs,  no  child  so  poor  that 


DANVIS  FARM  LIFE  71 

it  does  not  bear  bunches  of  violets  and  dandelions, 
while  the  mothers  rob  the  cherished  house  plants 
of  their  bloom  and  girls  bring  all  the  flowers  of  the 
wood. 

Far  more  touching  than  the  long  processions 
that  with  music  and  flags  and  floral  chariot  wind 
through  the  great  cemeteries  of  our  cities,  are  the 
simple  rites  of  the  small  scattered  groups  of  coun- 
try folks  who  come  to  deck  with  humble  flowers 
the  resting-place  of  the  soldier  who  was  neighbor 
or  brother  or  comrade.  While  the  garlands  yet  are 
fresh  and  fragrant  on  the  graves,  Spring  blossoms 
into  the  perfect  days  of  June. 

He  who  now  braves  the  onslaughts  of  the 
bloodthirsty  mosquito,  in  the  leafy  fastnesses  of 
the  June  woods,  will  see,  not  so  many  birds  as  he 
may  expect  to,  judging  from  the  throngs  in  fields 
and  orchards,  but  many  of  those  he  does  see  will 
be  unknown  to  him  if  he  has  not  the  lore  of  the 
ornithologist  and  a  sharp  eye  and  ear  to  boot. 
However,  he  will  meet  old  acquaintances,  his  little 
friends  the  chickadees  and  the  nuthatches,  the 
commoner  woodpeckers  and  the  yellow-bellied, 
perhaps.  The  jays  will  scold  him  and  the  crows 
make  a  pother  overhead  if  he  chances  in  the 
neighborhood  of  their  nests,  and,  likely  enough, 
he  will  see  fluttering  and  skulking  before  him  a 
brown  something  —  is  it  beast  or  bird?  —  and 
some  nimble  balls  of  brown  and  yellow  down  dis- 


72  DANVIS  FABM  LIFE 

appearing  under  the  green  leaves  of  this  year  or 
the  dead  ones  of  last,  at  his  very  feet,  which,  after 
the  first  moment  of  surprise,  he  knows  are  a  hen- 
partridge  and  her  young.  Tracing  an  unmistak- 
able half -harsh  note  to  a  tree-top  he  sees  the  red- 
hot  glow  of  a  scarlet  tanager  and  knows  that  his 
dull  green  mate  is  not  far  off. 

Led  by  the  sound  of  axe-strokes,  falling  quicker 
and  not  so  strongly  as  those  of  the  wood-chopper, 
he  breasts  the  tangle  of  broad-leafed  hobble-bush 
and  the  clustered  bloom  of  cornels  and  comes  upon 
a  man  busy  with  axe  and  spade  peeling  the  hem- 
lock logs  cut  last  winter;  some  shining  in  the 
"chopping"  in  the  whiteness  of  their  fresh  naked- 
ness, their  ancient  vestments  set  up  against  them 
to  dry;  others,  still  clad  in  the  furrowed  bark, 
drilled  by  the  beaks  of  a  thousand  woodpeckers  and 
scratched  by  the  claws  of  numberless  generations 
of  squirrels.  It  is  one  of  Nature's  mysteries  that 
these  prostrate  trunks  should  feel  the  thrill  of  her 
renewed  life  and  their  sap  flow  again  for  a  little 
while  through  the  severed  ducts.  If  the  hand  that 
now  strips  them  were  the  same  that  hewed  them 
down,  one  might  believe  the  blood  of  these  dead 
trees  started  afresh  at  the  touch  of  their  mur- 
derer. 

During  the  "breathing  spell"  which  comes  be- 
tween the  finishing  of  spring's  and  the  beginning 
of  summer's  work  on  the  farm,  the  path-master 


DANVIS  FARM  LIFE  73 

warns  out  the  farmers  to  the  performance  of  the 
farce  termed,  by  stretch  of  courtesy,  "road-mend- 
ing," which  is  played  regularly  twice  a  year,  when 
all  hands  turn  out  with  teams,  ploughs,  scrapers 
and  wagons,  spades,  shovels,  and  hoes  and  make 
good  roads  bad  and  bad  roads  worse.  It  is  fortu- 
nate for  those  who  travel  much  upon  the  highways 
that  these  road-menders  do  so  little,  playing  at 
work  for  a  short  time,  then  stopping,  leaning  on 
plough-handle  or  spade  to  hold  grave.consultation 
concerning  the  ways  of  doing  some  part  of  their 
task,  or  gathering  about  the  water-jug  in  the 
shade  of  a  wayside  tree,  and  spending  an  uncon- 
scionable time  in  quenching  their  thirst  and  light- 
ing their  pipes  and  joking  or  discussing  some  mat- 
ter of  neighborhood  gossip. 

But  the  young  corn  is  showing  in  rows  of  green 
across  the  dark  mould  that  the  time  for  the  first 
hoeing  has  come.  The  long-suffering  boy  be- 
strides old  Dobbin  and  guides  him  between  the 
rows  while  he  drags  back  and  forth  the  plough  or 
cultivator,  held,  most  likely,  by  one  too  apt  to 
blame  the  boy  for  every  misstep  of  the  horse  which 
crushes  beyond  resurrection  a  hill  of  corn.  It  is 
my  opinion  that  to  this  first  odious  compulsory 
equitation  entailed  upon  the  boys  of  my  genera- 
tion is  due  the  falling  into  disuse  of  equestrianism 
in  New  England.  Who  that  had  ever  ridden  a 
horse  at  snail's  pace  among  the  corn-rows  in  the 


74  DANVIS  FARM  LIFE 

lazy  days  of  early  summer  when  he  knew  he  ought 
to  be  catching  the  fish  or  hunting  the  birds'  nests 
he  was  dreaming  of,  instead  of  being  a  clothespin 
to  the  thin  blanket  on  Dobbin's  sharp  back  and 
the  mark  of  the  sharper  tongue  of  the  plough- 
holder,  would  ever  again  of  his  own  free  will 
mount  a  horse?  I  can  speak  for  one.  Happily  this 
particular  boy-torture  has  gone  out  of  fashion; 
and  in  the  tillage  of  hoed  crops  as  hi  haymaking 
the  horse  is  guided  by  the  man  who  cultivates  or 
rakes.  After  this  trio,  man,  boy,  and  horse,  come 
the  hoers  cutting  away  at  the  everlasting  and 
ever-present  weeds,  and  stirring  and  mellowing 
the  soil  of  the  corn  or  potato  hills. 

It  is  likely  enough  to  happen,  about  these  days, 
that  a  farmer,  having  set  about  the  building  of  a 
barn  and  the  carpenter  having  got  the  frame 
ready  for  setting  up,  invites  his  neighbors  to  a 
"raising,"  one  of  the  few  "bees"  remaining  of 
those  so  common  and  frequent  in  the  earlier  days 
of  interdependence.  The  young  and  able-bodied 
are  promptly  on  hand,  and  vie  with  one  another 
in  deeds  of  strength  and  daring,  while  the  old 
men,  exempt  from  the  warfare  of  life,  sit  apart 
on  a  pile  of  rafters  or  sleepers,  anon  giving  sage 
advice,  recounting  their  youthful  exploits,  and 
contrasting  the  past  with  the  present;  seldom, 
albeit,  to  the  great  honor  of  modern  times  or  men. 
The  labor  ended,  cakes,  pies,  cheese,  and  cider  are 


DANVIS  FARM  LIFE  75 

served,  and  these  comfortably  disposed  of,  the 
jolly  company  disperse. 

One  kind  of  "bee,"  as  these  gatherings  for  mu- 
tual help  are  called,  which  has  only  lately  gone 
out  with  the  oxen,  who  were  the  chief  actors  in  it, 
was  the  "drawing  bee."  A  farmer,  having  cause 
to  change  the  site  of  a  barn  or  other  structure, 
would,  with  the  carpenter's  help,  usually  in  early 
spring,  but  sometimes  in  the  fall,  get  runners  un- 
der his  building.  These  were  long  timbers  of  some- 
thing more  than  the  building's  length,  cut  with 
an  upward  slope  at  the  forward  end.  Having 
properly  braced  the  inside  of  his  barn,  to  with- 
stand the  rack  of  transportation,  all  his  oxen- 
owning  neighbors  were  bidden  to  his  aid.  The 
yokes  of  oxen  were  hitched  in  two  "strings,"  one 
to  each  runner,  and,  all  being  ready,  were  started 
off  at  the  word  of  command,  amid  a  clamor  of 
"Whoa-hush!"  "Whoa-haw!"  and  "Gee!"  ad- 
dressed to  the  Bucks,  Broads,  Stars,  Brindles,  and 
Brights,  who  were  the  motive  power,  the  creaking 
of  the  racked  frame  and  the  shrill  shouts  of  the 
boys,  without  whose  presence  nothing  of  such 
moment  ever  is,  if  it  ever  could  be,  done. 

The  barn  being  safely  set  in  its  new  place,  the 
bee  ended  in  feasting  and  jollification.  Now  that 
oxen  have  become  so  scarce  it  would  need  the 
mustering  of  a  whole  county  to  provide  the  nec- 
essary force.  In  the  old  times  there  were  also 


76  DANVIS  FARM  LIFE 

"logging  bees,"  and  others,  which  have  fallen 
into  disuse. 

After  hoeing,  the  deluge  —  for  the  sheep;  for 
they  must  be  washed  preparatory  to  shearing, 
which  important  event  in  their  and  farm  life  now 
draws  near.  In  some  pool  of  a  stream,  or  sheltered 
cove  of  a  pond  or  lake,  where  the  water  is  hip- 
deep,  or  under  the  outpouring  stream  from  a 
tapped  mill-flume,  or  the  farmer's  own  pond  made 
for  this  especial  purpose,  they  suffer  this  cleansing. 

Huddled  in  a  pen  they  are  taken  by  the  catcher 
as  called  for  and  carried  to  the  washers,  and, 
passing  from  their  hands,  stagger,  water-logged 
and  woe-begone,  up  the  bank  to  rejoin  their  drip- 
ping comrades,  and  doubtless  pass  the  hours  while 
their  fleeces  are  drying  in  mutual  condolement 
over  man's  inhumanity  to  sheep. 

Within  a  fortnight  or  so  after  this  comes  the 
shearing.  The  farmer  engages  the  service  of  as 
many  as  he  needs  of  his  neighbors  and  their  sons 
as  are  skillful  shearers.  The  barn  floor  and  its 
overhanging  scaffolds  are  carefully  swept.  The 
skies  are  watched  for  the  day  and  night  preceding 
the  first  day  of  shearing,  lest  a  sudden  shower 
should  wet  the  sheep,  which,  if  so  threatened,  must 
be  got  to  the  shelter  of  the  barn.  If  this  fore- 
thought has  not  been  needed  in  the  early  morning 
of  the  great  day,  all  the  available  force  is  mus- 
tered, such  farmhands  as  can  be  spared  from  the 


DANVIS  FARM  LIFE  77 

milking,  the  boys  roused  from  their  morning  nap, 
and  some  helpful,  timely  coming  shearers,  to  get 
the  sheep  home  from  the  pastures.  Them  the  sun 
salutes  with  his  first  rays  as  they  encompass  the 
sheep  on  the  dry  knoll  where  they  have  slept,  and 
call  and  drive  them  homeward  across  the  pasture 
and  through  the  lane  to  the  barnyard. 

Who  shall  tell  the  waywardness  of  sheep !  How 
they  will  come  to  one  when  not  called  or  wanted, 
but  will  flee  from  the  caller  when  wanted  as  if  he 
were  a  ravening  wolf;  how  they  will  peer  suspi- 
ciously at  the  gap  or  gateway  through  which  they 
should  go,  as  if  on  the  thither  side  were  lurking 
dire  perils;  or  how  they  will  utterly  ignore  it  and 
race  past  it  at  headlong  speed,  unheeding  the 
shaking  of  salt-dish  and  the  most  persuasive 
"ca-day,"  and  how  surely  they  will  discover  the 
smallest  break  in  a  fence  through  which  they 
should  not  go,  and  go  scrambling  through  it,  or 
over  a  wall,  pell-mell,  like  a  charging  squadron  of 
horse,  as,  if  not  possessed  with  the  devil  himself, 
possessed,  at  least,  with  the  fear  that  he,  or  some- 
thing more  terrible  than  he  to  ovine  imagination, 
will  surely  take  the  hindmost.  But  the  patience 
with  which  they  endure  shearing  is  a  virtue  which 
covers  many  of  their  sins.  Seldom  struggling 
much,  though  they  are  held  continually  in  un- 
natural positions,  on  the  side  with  the  neck  under 
the  shearer's  knee,  or  on  the  rump  with  the  neck 


78  DANVIS  FARM  LIFE 

bent  over  his  knee  or  pilloried  between  his  legs. 
Surely  the  sheep  was  made  to  be  shorn.  Fancy 
any  other  domestic  animal  undergoing  the  process. 
What  comes  of  pig-shearing  is  proverbial. 

From  the  barn,  so  silent  since  foddering  ended, 
issues  now  a  medley  of  sounds  —  the  loud  bleat- 
ing of  the  ewes,  in  tones  as  various  as  human 
voices,  and  the  higher-pitched  lamentations  of  the 
lambs,  bewailing  their  short  separation,  the  cas- 
tanet-like  click  of  the  shears,  loud  jests  and  merry 
laughter,  the  outcry  of  the  alarmed  swallows 
cleaving  the  upper  darkness  of  the  ridge,  where 
within  feather-lined  mud  walls  their  treasures  he. 

Ranged  along  the  floor,  each  in  his  allotted 
place,  are  the  three,  four,  or  half-dozen  or  more 
shearers,  bending  each  over  his  sheep,  which, 
under  his  skillful  hand,  shrinks  rapidly  from  um- 
ber plumpness  to  creamy-white  thinness,  under- 
going a  change  so  great  that,  when  released,  she 
goes  leaping  forth  into  the  yard,  her  own  lamb 
hardly  knows  her.  At  his  table,  with  a  great  reel  of 
twine  at  his  elbow,  is  the  tier,  making  each  fleece 
into  a  compact  bundle.  At  the  stable-door  is  the 
alert  catcher,  ready  with  an  unshorn  sheep  as  each 
shorn  one  is  let  go;  and  these,  with  a  boy  to  pick 
up  scattered  locks,  constitute  the  working  force. 

Neighbors  drop  in  to  lounge  an  hour  away  in 
the  jolly  company,  to  take  a  pull  at  the  cider 
pitcher,  or  engage  shearers  for  their  own  shearing. 


DANVIS  FARM  LIFE  79 

The  wool  buyer  makes  his  rounds,  and  the  boys 
come  to  see  the  shearing,  to  get  in  everybody's 
way,  and  beg  cuts  of  sheep-twine.  The  farmhouse 
affords  its  best  for  the  shearing  dinner,  which  has 
long  been  an  honored  festival  in  New  England. 

But  the  cheap  wool-gr6wing  of  the  great  West 
has  well-nigh  put  an  end  to  this  industry  here. 
Flocks  have  become  few  and  small,  and  herds 
of  Alderneys  or  shorthorns  feed  where  formerly 
great  flocks  of  Merinos  nibbled  the  clover.  Shep- 
herds have  turned  dairymen.  Those  who  practice 
the  shearers'  craft  year  by  year  become  scarcer, 
and  the  day  seems  not  far  off  when  this  once  great 
event  of  our  year  will  live  only  in  the  memory  of 
old  men. 

The  silvery  green  of  the  rye-fields,  and  the 
darker  green  of  the  winter  wheat,  and  the  purple 
bloom  of  the  herds'  grass,  grow  billowy  under  the 
soft  winds  of  July  with  waves  that  bear  presage 
of  harvesting  and  haymaking. 

In  fields  red  and  white  with  clover  and  daisy, 
the  strawberries  have  ripened,  and  have  drawn  a 
flavor,  the  essence  of  wildness,  from  the  free 
clouds  that  shadowed  them,  from  the  songs  of  the 
bobolinks  and  meadowlarks  that  hovered  over 
them,  from  bumble-bee  and  skimming  swallow, 
from  the  near  presence  of  the  nightly  prowling 
fox  —  a  flavor  that  no  garden  fruit  possesses.  To 
pick  these  is  not  so  much  a  labor  as  a  pastime  for 


80  DANVIS  FARM  LIFE 

the  women  and  children  who  go  out  to  gather 
them  under  such  blue  skies  and  amid  such  bloom 
of  clover,  daisy,  and  buttercup,  and  sung  to  so 
cheerily  by  the  jolly  bobolink. 

About  the  Fourth  of  July  haying  begins.  The 
rank  growth  about  the  barns  is  hand-mowed,  and 
the  mowing-machine  is  trundled  out  from  its  rust- 
ing idleness,  and,  being  tinkered  into  readiness, 
goes  jingling  and  clattering  afield,  where,  having 
fairly  got  at  its  work,  it  gnaws  down  with  untiring 
tooth  its  eight  or  ten  acres  a  day.  The  incessant 
unmodulated  "chirr"  of  this  jnodern  innovator 
has  almost  banished  the  ancient  music  of  the 
whetted  scythe,  a  sound  that  for  centuries  had 
been  as  much  a  part  of  haymaking  as  the  fra- 
grance of  the  newmown  hay.  But  its  musical  voice 
cannot  save  it.  The  old  scythe  must  go,  and  we 
cannot  deny  that  the  noisy  usurper  is  a  blessing  to 
us  all  in  lightening  labor,  and,  not  least  among  us, 
to  the  boy,  for  whom  I  cherish  a  kindly  feeling, 
and  for  any  softening  of  whose  lot  I  am  thankful. 

In  the  days  before  mowing-machines,  hordes  of 
Canadian  French  swarmed  over  the  borders  to 
work  in  haying,  in  crews  of  two  or  three,  jiggling 
southward  in  their  rude  carts,  drawn  by  tough, 
shaggy  little  ponies.  They  were  doughty  work- 
men in  the  field  and  at  the  table;  merry-hearted 
and  honest  fellows,  too;  for,  when  they  departed, 
they  seldom  took,  beside  their  wages,  more  than 


DANVIS  FARM  LIFE  81 

a  farming  tool  or  two,  or  the  sheets  from  their 
beds,  doubtless  as  mementoes  of  their  sojourn  in 
the  States.  But  the  Batistes  and  Antoines  and 
innumerable  Joes  and  Pierres '  bide  on  their  own 
arpents  now  all  the  summer  through  and  come  to 
us  no  more.  If  we  miss  them,  with  their  baggy 
trousers  and  gay  sashes,  the  shuffle  of  their  moc- 
casined  feet  and  their  sonorous  songs  that  had 
always  a  touch  of  pathos  in  them,  we  do  not 
mourn  for  them. 

As  the  cut  grass  dries  under  the  downright 
beams  of  the  summer  sun  and  becomes  ready  for 
the  raking,  the  windrows  (always  "winrows," 
here)  lengthen  along  the  shaven  sward  as  the 
horse-rake  goes  back  and  forth  across  the  meadow, 
and  the  workmen  following  with  forks  soon  dot 
the  fields  with  cocks  if  the  hay  is  to  wait  to-mor- 
row's drawing,  or  with  less  careful  tumbles  if  it 
goes  to  barn  or  stack  to-day. 

Now  the  wagon  comes  surmounted  by  its  rat- 
tling "  hay-riggin',"  with  the  legs  of  the  pitcher 
and  the  unfortunate  who  "mows  away"  and 
"rakes  after"  dangling  over  its  side,  and  the  man 
who  loads,  the  captain,  pilot,  and  stevedore  of  this 
craft,  standing  forward  driving  his  horses,  for  the 
oxen  and  cart,  too  slow  for  these  hurrying  times, 
have  lumbered  into  the  past.  The  stalwart  pitcher 
upheaves  the  great  forkfuls,  skillfully  bestowed 
by  the  loader,  till  they  have  grown  into  a  load 


82  DANVIS  FARM  LIFE 

which  moves  off  with  ponderous  stateliness  across 
the  meadow  to  the  stack  or  barn.  Seen  from  astern 
as  it  sways  and  heaves  along  its  way,  one  might 
fancy  it  an  enormous  elephant  with  a  Yankee 
mahout  on  its  back. 

In  the  middle  of  the  long  afternoon  is  luncheon- 
time,  when  all  hands  gather  in  the  shade  of  tree 
or  stack  or  barn  and  fortify  themselves  with 
gingerbread  and  cheese.  Showers  interrupt,  fore- 
shadowed by  pearly  mountains  of  "thunder- 
heads  "  that  uplift  themselves  above  the  more  ma- 
terial mountains  of  earth  which  are  soon  veiled 
with  the  blue-black  film  of  the  coming  rain,  when 
there  is  bustle  in  the  hay-field,  rapid  making  of 
cocks  that  are  no  sooner  made  than  blown  over  by 
the  rain-gust,  and  drivers  shouting  to  their  teams 
hurrying  to  shelter  with  their  loads.  And  days 
arrive  when  from  morning  till  night  the  rain  comes 
steadily  down,  stopping  all  outdoor  work.  Then 
some  go  a-fishing  or  to  lounge  in  the  village  store, 
or  perhaps  all  gather  in  the  barn  to  chat  and  joke 
and  doze  away  the  dull  hours  on  the  fragrant 
hay.  Some  harvesting  intervenes  and  the  cradles 
swing  in  the  fields  of  rye  and  wheat  with  graceful 
sweep  and  musical  ring.  The  binders  follow  and 
soon  the  yellow  shocks  are  ranked  along  the  field 
whence  they  go  duly  to  the  barn. 

When  the  night-hawk  circles  through  the  eve- 
ning sky,  now  uttering  his  harsh  note,  anon  plung- 


DANVIS  FARM  LIFE  83 

ing  downward  with  a  sound  like  the  twanging  of 
the  bass  strings  of  some  great  instrument,  and 
the  August  piper  begins  his  shrill,  monotonous 
concert,  and  the  long  shadows  crawl  eastward 
across  the  meadows  where  the  rusty-breasted 
robins  are  hopping  in  quest  of  supper,  the  toilworn 
farmer  looks  forth  upon  his  shaven  sward  with  its 
shapely  stacks  all  ridered  and  penned,  and  upon 
the  yellow  stubble  of  his  shorn  grain-fields,  and  is 
glad  that  the  fret  and  labor  of  haying  and  harvest- 
ing are  over. 

Soon  the  nights  have  a  threat  of  frost  in  their 
increasing  chilliness;  birds  have  done  singing  and 
there  is  the  mournfulness  of  speedy  departure  in 
their  short,  business-like  notes.  The  foam  of  the 
buckwheat-fields,  upborne  on  stems  of  crimson  and 
gold,  is  flecked  with  pale  green  and  brown  kernels, 
inviting  the  cradler.  The  blond  tresses  of  the  corn 
are  grown  dark;  the  yellow  kernels  begin  to  show 
through  the  parted  husks  and  the  cutting  of  this 
most  beautiful  of  grains  begins.  The  small  forest 
of  maize  becomes  an  Indian  village  whose  wig- 
wams are  corn-shocks,  in  whose  streets  lie  yellow 
pumpkins  with  their  dark  vines  trailing  among 
the  pigeon-grass  and  weeds.  The  pumpkin,  New 
England's  well-beloved  and  the  golden  crown  of 
her  Thanksgiving  feast,  might  be  her  symbolic 
plant,  as  Old  England's  rose  and  Scotland's 
thistle  are  theirs.  How  the  adventurous  vine, 


84  DANVIS  FARM  LIFE 

rough,  prickly,  and  somewhat  coarse,  even  in  its 
flowers,  wanders  forth  from  its  parent  hill,  through 
bordering  wilderness  of  aftermath  and  over  Rocky 
Mountains  of  walls,  overcoming  all  and  bearing 
golden  fruit  afar  off,  yet  always  holding  on  to  the 
old  home,  Yankee-like,  and  drawing  its  sap  and 
life  therefrom ! 

Whether  or  not  the  frost  has  come  to  blacken 
the  leaves  of  the  pumpkins,  squashes,  and  cucum- 
bers and  to  hasten  the  ripening  of  the  foliage,  the 
trees  are  taking  on  the  autumnal  colors.  The  ash 
shows  the  first  grape-bloom  of  its  later  purple,  the 
butternut  is  blotched  with  yellow,  and  the  leaves 
of  the  hickory  are  turning  to  gold;  and  though  the 
greenness  of  the  oaks  and  some  of  the  sugar- 
maples  and  elms  still  endures,  the  sumacs  along 
the  walls  and  the  water-maples  and  pepperidges 
in  the  lowlands  are  red  with  the  consuming  fires  of 
autumn.  The  yellow  flame  of  the  goldenrods  has 
burned  out  and  the  paler  lamps  of  the  asters  are 
lighted  along  the  fences  and  woodsides. 

The  apples  are  growing  too  heavy  to  hold  longer 
to  the  parent  branch,  and,  with  no  warning  but  the 
click  of  intercepting  leaves,  tumble,  perhaps,  on 
the  head  of  some  unprofitable  dreamer  even  in 
practical  New  England.  They  are  ready  for  gath- 
ering, and  the  Greenings,  Northern  Spies,  Spitz- 
enbergs,  Russets,  Pomeroys,  and  Tallman  Sweets, 
and  all  whose  virtues  or  pretensions  have  gained 


DANVIS  FARM  LIFE  85 

them  a  name,  are  plucked  with  the  care  befitting 
their  honored  rank  and  stored  for  winter  use  or 
market,  while  their  plebeian  kindred,  the  "com- 
mon" or  "natural"  apples,  are  unceremoniously 
beaten  with  poles  or  shaken  from  their  scraggy, 
untrimmed  boughs  and  tumbled  into  the  box  of  the 
farm-wagon  to  go  lumbering  off  to  the  cider-mill. 
This,  after  its  ten  or  eleven  months  of  musty  emp- 
tiness and  idleness,  has  now  awakened  to  a  short 
season  of  bustle,  of  grinding  and  pressing  and  full- 
ness of  casks  and  heaped  bins  and  the  fragrance 
thereof.  Wagons  are  unloading  their  freight  of 
apples  and  empty  barrels,  and  departing  with  full 
casks  after  the  driver  has  tested  the  flavor  and 
strength  of  the  earliest-made  cider.  And  now  at 
the  cellar  hatchway  of  the  farmhouse,  the  boy 
and  the  new-come  cider-barrel  may  be  found  in 
conjunction  with  a  rye  straw  for  the  connecting 
link. 

The  traveling  thresher  begins  to  make  the  round 
of  the  farms  and  establishes  his  machine  on  the 
barn  floor,  whence  belch  forth,  with  resounding 
din,  clouds  of  dust  in  which  are  seen  dimly  the 
forms  of  the  workmen  and  the  laboring  horses 
climbing  an  unstable  hill  whose  top  they  never 
reach.  Out  of  the  dust-cloud  grows  a  stack  of  yel- 
low straw  alongside  the  gray  barn,  which  it  almost 
rivals  in  height  and  breadth  when  the  threshing 
is  ended. 


86  DANVIS  FARM  LIFE 

About  apple-picking  time,  and  for  a  month  or 
two  after,  "apple  cuts"  or  "paring  bees"  used  to 
be  frequent,  when  all  the  young  folks  of  a  neighbor- 
hood were  invited,  never  slighting  the  skilled 
parer  with  his  machine.  After  some  bushels  of 
apples  were  pared,  quartered,  cored,  and  strung 
for  drying,  the  kitchen  was  cleared  of  its  rubbish 
of  cores  and  skins,  and  after  a  feast  of  "nut- 
cakes,"  pumpkin  pies,  and  cider,  the  plays  began 
to  the  tunes  of  "Come,  Philander,  le's  be  march- 
in',"  "The  needle's  eye  that  doth  supply  the 
thread  that  runs  so  true,"  and  "We're  marchin' 
onwards  towards  Quebec  where  the  drums  are 
loud/i/  beatin',"  or  the  fiddle  or  "'Lisha's"  song 
of  "Tol-liddle,  tol-liddle,  tol-lo-day,  do-day-hum, 
do-day-hum,  tolli-day,"  set  all  feet  to  jigging 
"Twin  Sisters,"  or  "French  four."  These  jolly 
gatherings,  though  by  many  years  outliving  the 
old-fashioned  husking  bee,  have  at  last  fallen  into 
disuse,  and  their  hearty  New  England  flavor  is 
poorly  supplied  by  the  insipid  sociables  and 
abominable  surprise  parties  that  are  now  in 
vogue. 

The  husking  bees,  in  which  girls  took  a  part, 
when  a  red  ear  was  a  coveted  treasure,  are  remem- 
bered only  by  the  old;  but  the  rollicking  parties 
of  men  that  gathered  to  husk  in  the  fields  by 
moonlight  or  firelight,  or  by  lantern-light  in  the 
barns  that  rang  again  with  their  songs  and  noisy 


DANVIS  FARM  LIFE  87 

mirth,  held  a  notable  place  in  our  farm  life  till 
within  a  decade  or  two  of  years.  But  they,  too, 
have  passed  away,  and  husking  has  grown  to  be 
a  humdrum,  workday  labor,  though  not  an  un- 
pleasant one,  whether  the  spikes  of  gold  are  un- 
sheathed in  the  field  in  the  hazy  warmth  of  an 
October  day,  or  in  the  barn  when  the  fall  rain  is 
pattering  on  the  roof  and  making  brown  puddles 
in  the  barnyard.  In  these  days  the  cows  are  apt 
to  come  late  to  the  milking,  for  the  cow-boy  loiters 
by  the  way  to  fill  his  pocket  with  hickory-nuts,  or 
crack  a  hatful  of  butternuts  on  the  big  stone, 
which,  with  some  small  ones  for  hammers,  seem 
always  to  be  set  under  every  butternut-tree. 

The  turkeys  wander  far  and  wide  grasshopper- 
hunting  over  the  meadows,  whereon  the  gossamer 
lies  so  thick  that  the  afternoon  sun  casts  a  shim- 
mering sunglade  across  them,  and  go  nutting 
along  the  edge  of  the  woods  where  the  slender 
fingers  of  the  beeches  are  dropping  their  light 
burden  of  golden  leaves  and  brown  mast. 

Long,  straggling  columns  of  crows  are  moving 
southward  by  leisurely  aerial  marches,  and  at 
night  and  morning  the  clamor  of  their  noisy  en- 
campments disturbs  the  woods.  Most  of  the 
summer  birds  have  gone.  A  few  robins,  hopping 
silently  among  the  tangle  of  wild  grapevines,  and 
flocks  of  yellowbirds,  clad  now  in  sober  garments 
and  uttering  melancholy  notes  as  they  glean  the 


88  DANVIS  FARM  LIFE 

seeds  of  the  frostbitten  hemp,  are  almost  the  only 
ones  left.  There  are  no  songs  of  birds  now,  nor 
any  flowers  but  here  and  there  in  the  pastures  an 
untimely  blooming  dandelion,  and  in  the  almost 
leafless  woods  the  pink  blossoms  of  herb  Robert 
and  the  pale  yellow  flowers  of  the  witch-hazel. 

The  last  potato  is  dug  and  stored,  the  buck- 
wheat drawn  and  threshed,  the  last  pumpkin 
housed,  and  the  cattle  have  begun  to  receive  their 
daily  allowance  of  corn-fodder.  People  begin  to 
feel  a  pride  in  the  increasing  cold,  and  compare 
weather  notes  and  speculate  and  prophesy  con- 
cerning the  coming  of  winter.  The  old  farmhouse 
is  made  ready  for  winter.  Its  foundations  are 
again  reinforced  with  banking,  its  outside  win- 
dows and  storm-doors  are  set  on  their  long  guard 
of  the  winter  weather,  and  all  the  sons  and  daugh- 
ters of  the  old  house  have  gathered  from  far  and 
near  to  hold  the  New  England  (now  the  national) 
feast  of  Thanksgiving,  and  have  dispersed.  The 
last  wedge  of  wild  geese  has  cloven  the  cold  sky. 
There  is  a  wintry  roar  in  the  wind-swept  hills,  and 
as  the  first  snowflakes  and  the  last  sere  leaves 
come  eddying  down  together  our  year  of  farm  life 
ends. 


SOBAPSQUA 

FROM  the  Vermont  mainland  in  the  township  of 
Charlotte,  a  long  cape,  toothed  with  minor  points 
and  indented  with  small  bays,  reaches  far  west- 
ward toward  the  bald  promontory  of  Split  Rock. 
The  cape  is  fringed  with  woods,  and  terminates  in 
a  bold  cliff,  crowned  with  cedars,  pines,  and  de- 
ciduous trees. 

In  it  is  embalmed  the  name  of  a  man  otherwise 
forgotten.  No  one  knows  who  Thompson  was,  but 
it  is  probable  that  he  was  the  first  settler  here,  and 
that  a  scraggy  orchard,  intergrown  with  cedars, 
and  the  barely  traceable  foundations  of  a  house, 
were  his,  and  that  some  crumbling  lines  of  stone 
wall  mark  the  divisions  of  his  sterile  fields. 

Doubtless  the  poverty  of  this  soil  prevented  a 
succession  of  occupants  and  the  consequent  suc- 
cession of  names  which  so  many  of  our  points  and 
bays  have  undergone.  "Thompson's  Point"  is 
not  a  good  name  for  a  noble  headland,  but  it  is 
better  that  it  should  have  borne  it  for  a  hundred 
years  than  half  a  dozen  that  are  no  more  signifi- 
cant. 

The  Waubanakees  called  it  "  Kozoapsqua,"  the 
"Long  Rocky  Point,"  and  the  noticeable  cleft 
promontory  opposite  "Sobapsqua,"  the  "Pass 


90  SOBAPSQUA 

through  the  Rock,"  names  which  might  well  have 
been  retained,  and  perhaps  would  have  been  if  our 
pioneer  ancestors  had  not  so  bitterly  hated  the 
Indians  and  all  that  pertained  to  them.  There  was 
cause  enough  for  this  hatred,  but  one  wishes  it  had 
not  been  carried  so  far  when  the  poverty  of  our 
ancestors'  nomenclature  is  considered  and  the  few 
surviving  names  of  Indian  origin  remind  us  how 
easily  we  might  have  been  spared  the  iteration 
of  commonplace  and  vulgar  names  that  cling  to 
mountain,  river,  and  lake. 

Sobapsqua  and  Kozoapsqua  make  the  gateway 
to  the  broader  expanse  of  water  stretching  thence 
to  Canada.  It  is  one  through  which  many  mem- 
orable expeditions  have  passed — unrecorded  war 
parties  of  Iroquois  and  Waubanakee,  the  brave 
and  devout  Champlain  on  his  voyage  of  discovery 
with  his  Indian  allies,  the  predatory  bands  of 
French  and  Indians  marching  over  the  ice-bound 
lake,  the  armies  of  France  bearing  her  banners  to 
victory  or  trailing  them  homeward  from  defeat. 
Here  passed  Rogers  and  his  rangers  to  wreak 
vengeance  on  those  scourges  of  New  England,  the 
Waubanakees  of  Saint  Francis,  and  then  Am- 
herst's  army  passing  from  lesser  conquests  to  the 
final  and  crowning  victory.  A  few  years  later  the 
little  army  of  Americans  went  through  these  por- 
tals to  its  disastrous  campaign  in  Canada,  and 
the  ensuing  winter  saw  Warner  and  his  rangers 


SOBAPSQUA  91 

march  down  the  frozen  lake  to  the  succor  of  their 
hard-pressed  brethren;  the  following  summer,  the 
same  brave  commander  bearing  homeward  the 
feeble  remnant  of  the  Northern  army. 

Here  Arnold's  flotilla  passed  on  its  way  to  the 
bloody  battle  at  Valcour,  and  here  the  escaping 
vessels  were  overtaken  by  Carleton's  fleet  and  the 
running  fight  began  which  ended  at  Arnold's  Bay. 
Through  this  broad  gateway  came  Burgoyne's  un- 
returning  host.  Ticonderoga  fell,  and  henceforth 
till  the  close  of  the  war  British  warships  passed 
and  repassed  in  undisputed  possession  of  the  lake 
whose  waters  mirrored  no  flag  but  the  red  cross 
of  England.  Then  it  vanished  from  them  till  it 
reappeared  when  Captain  Pring's  flotilla  made  it3 
unsuccessful  assault  on  Fort  Cassin,  at  the  mouth 
of  the  Otter,  in  which  McDonough's  unready  fleet 
lay  moored.  Next  day  the  Stars  and  Stripes 
flashed  past  these  headlands  as  the  gallant  fleet 
sailed  down  the  lake  to  its  eventual  glorious  vic- 
tory in  Plattsburg  Bay. 

Thus,  for  two  centuries,  such  shifting  scenes  of 
war  passed  in  broken  succession  before  these  stead- 
fast sentinels.  Then  came  the  peaceful  sails  of 
commerce,  white-winged  schooners  and  sloops,  the 
single  square  canvas  of  Canadian  craft;  immense 
lumber  rafts,  coaxed  slowly  northward  by  sweep 
and  sail;  the  first  clumsy  steamboat,  making 
tortoise-like  progress,  followed  in  a  little  while 


92  SOBAPSQUA 

by  majestic  successors,  tearing  the  still  waters 
asunder  and  casting  the  torn  waves  against  either 
rocky  shore. 

In  the  later,  pleasant  days  of  autumn  canoes  of 
the  Waubanakees  reappeared,  like  apparitions  of 
the  old  days,  rounding  the  ancient  headland,  and 
making  into  the  great  "Bay  of  the  Vessels" 
straight  for  Wonakakatukese,  Sungahneetuk  or 
Paumbowk,  the  old  trapping-grounds  of  the  wild 
fathers  of  these  peaceable  men,  coming  now  with 
no  bloodier  intent  than  warfare  against  the  musk- 
rats,  while  their  women  made  baskets  and  moc- 
casins to  hawk  about  the  countryside.  The  oldest 
men  could  repeat  the  legends  of  ancient  wars 
with  the  Iroquois  and  knew  the  old  names  of 
rivers,  mountains,  and  lakes,  and  still  made  offer- 
ing to  Wojahose,  the  invisible  deity  of  the  lake,  as 
they  paddled  in  awed  silence  past  the  lonely  rock 
wherein  dwelt  the  master  of  storms. 

Fifty  years  ago  some  one  discovered  that  the 
reefs  off  Thompson's  Point  were  good  fishing- 
grounds  for  pike-perch,  and  they  became  a  favorite 
resort  of  anglers.  To  take  advantage  of  the  late 
and  early  fishing  it  was  a  common  custom  to  camp 
on  the  Point  overnight.  For  the  most  part  the 
fishermen  camped  in  primitive  fashion.  They 
slept  on  beds  of  cedar  twigs  under  rude  shelters  of 
cedar  boughs  and  cooked  their  simple  fare,  with 
few  utensils,  over  an  open  fire.  Occasionally  a 


SOBAPSQUA  93 

party  brought  a  tent  and  lived  more  luxuriously 
under  canvas  during  a  longer  outing.  At  last  a 
goodly  guild  of  honest  anglers  built  an  unpreten- 
tious but  comfortable  clubhouse  with  two  rooms 
on  the  ground  floor,  one  of  which  was  kitchen, 
dining-room,  and  living-room,  the  other  a  sleeping- 
apartment  fitted  up  with  two  tiers  of  bunks,  which 
were  supplemented  by  others  in  the  loft.  There 
were  a  cook-stove,  a  big  coffee-pot,  kettles,  and 
more  than  one  capacious  frying-pan,  also  a  table 
and  seats,  but  the  primitive  character  of  a  genuine 
camp  was  still  maintained.  Everything  was  con- 
ducted in  a  free-and-easy  manner,  without  any 
attempt  at  style  or  luxurious  living. 

To  supply  the  demands  of  the  frying-pans  and 
for  sport,  which,  though  dull  as  watching  a  runway 
for  deer,  quite  satisfied  their  modest  desires,  these 
men  anchored  their  boats  on  the  reefs  and  fished 
from  daybreak  to  nightfall  with  the  philosophical 
patience  of  honest  anglers.  When  the  fish  were 
biting  well  there  was  lively  work  hauling  in  the 
sixty  or  one  hundred  feet  of  line  hand  over  hand, 
with  a  stout  pike-perch  and  a  strong  current  to 
fight  against,  but  when  there  was  a  long  time  be- 
tween bites  it  was  dull  enough.  A  stiff  cedar  pole 
with  wire  guides  and  a  cleat  at  the  butt  to  wind 
the  line  on  was  the  approved  tackle  by  which  the 
fish  was  brought  to  boat  in  the  briefest  possible 
time. 


94  SOBAPSQUA 

If  the  fishing  was  not  conducted  in  the  finest 
style  of  the  art  it  fulfilled  all  the  requirements 
of  these  anglers,  and  there  were  jolly  gatherings 
around  the  camp-fire,  whether  it  blazed  in  the  free 
air  or  roared  within  the  rusty  iron  walls  of  the  stove. 

In  those  days  the  Point  afforded  good  fox- 
hunting, as  in  days  long  before  when  Uncle  Bill 
Williams  and  the  old  Meaches  hunted  there 
with  their  gaunt,  melodious-voiced,  old-fashioned 
hounds  and  were  succeeded  by  Uncle  Bill's  sons, 
John  Thorpe,  and  others  of  a  generation  of  Nim- 
rods,  who,  in  turn,  have  departed  to  happier 
hunting-grounds  than  these  are  now. 

We  who  came  later  had  excellent  sport,  for  at 
least  one  litter  of  foxes  was  sure  to  be  raised  there 
every  year,  and  besides  these  residents  transient 
visitors  were  likely  enough  to  be  started. 

A  fox  running  before  hounds  would  keep  a 
course  conforming  to  the  shore-line  and  thus  make 
the  circuit  of  the  Point,  crossing  from  one  side  to 
the  other  near  the  heads  of  the  two  bays,  and 
would  so  repeat  the  circuit  till  killed,  run  to  earth, 
or  run  off  the  Point  along  one  or  the  other  shore  to 
the  Cove  Woods,  McNiell's  Point,  or  the  hills. 
A  single  hunter  stood  a  reasonable  chance  of  get- 
ting a  shot,  while  if  there  were  two  or  more,  prop- 
erly posted,  one  of  these  was  almost  sure  of  a 
chance,  though  by  no  means  so  certain  of  the  fox, 
who  sometimes  safely  ran  the  gantlet  of  half  a 


SOBAPSQUA  95 

dozen  guns  and  left  as  many  chopfallen  hunters, 
each  excusing  himself  and  blaming  the  others. 

I  have  painful  recollections  of  being  more  than 
once  a  member  of  such  an  awkward  squad,  mingled 
with  pleasanter  memories  of  occasions  when  for- 
tune favored  us;  but  somehow  the  misadventures 
stand  forth  most  prominently.  I  well  remember 
one  dull-skied  November  day  when  I  tramped  to 
the  Point  with  no  companion  but  my  old  hound 
Gabriel,  and  ranged  the  woods  almost  to  the  end 
without  finding  a  track  till  he  came  to  the  old 
orchard,  I  being  a  little  behind  him,  when  he 
sounded  such  a  melodious  blast  of  his  trumpet  as 
at  once  raised  my  waning  hopes  and  set  me  all 
alert.  In  a  moment  he  had  a  fox  afoot  and  going 
around  the  end  of  the  Point  from  the  south  side  to 
the  north  at  a  lively  rate.  There  was  a  bare  chance 
of  my  getting  over  to  that  side  in  time  to  intercept 
him,  and  I  tried  my  best  for  it,  running  venire  d 
terre  beside  an  old  wall  that  crossed  the  pasture 
till  I  came  to  the  belt  of  woods  above  the  shore.  I 
had  not  time  to  catch  breath  before  the  fox  was 
seen  among  the  thick  shadows  of  the  trees,  in 
black  relief  against  the  light  beyond,  and  I  made  a 
snap  shot  at  him.  He  tumbled  all  in  a  heap  into  a 
clump  of  cedar-trunks,  but  before  I  could  get  to 
him  he  picked  himself  up  and  staggered  into  a 
thicket,  whither  I  followed  close  at  his  heels  mak- 
ing futile  snatches  at  his  brush,  a  foot  or  so  beyond 


96  SOBAPSQUA 

my  reach.  Having  the  advantage  of  slipping 
through  intricacies  that  I  floundered  against,  he 
was  gaining  on  me  a  little,  when  Gabriel  over- 
hauled us  and  pounced  upon  him  with  a  grip  that 
took  the  life  out  of  the  poor  fox,  yet  not  soon 
enough  to  prevent  one  vengeful  nip  in  the  nose  of 
his  slayer.  Gabriel's  angelic  name  came  of  his 
voice,  not  of  his  temper,  which  was  so  kindled  by 
this  last  thrust  of  his  foe  that  the  handsome  skin 
was  in  danger  of  being  spoiled  before  I  could  get 
the  fox  away  from  him.  When  I  began  taking  off 
the  pelt  he  curled  himself  up  for  a  comfortable  nap, 
but  a  fresh  twinge  of  his  wounded  nose  suddenly 
rekindled  his  smouldering  wrath,  and  snatching 
the  fox  out  of  my  hands  he  gave  it  another  violent 
shaking,  and  I  had  to  be  severe  with  him  before  he 
would  let  me  finish. 

This  done,  we  set  forth  hi  the  homeward  direc- 
tion along  the  belt  of  woods  on  the  north  shore. 
We  had  not  gone  far  before  Gabriel  found  a  track 
that  engaged  his  earnest  attention,  whereof  he 
made  loud  proclamation  while  it  led  him  across  the 
wide  pasture  to  the  woods  of  Cedar  Point,  which  is 
the  southernmost  headland  of  the  cape  and  the 
largest  piece  of  woods  upon  it.  In  a  moment  the 
woods  were  filled  with  quick  reverberations  of  the 
hound's  melodious  voice.  Assured  that  the  fox  was 
afoot  and  that  there  was  no  time  to  lose,  I  put  my 
best  foot  forward  for  the  corner  of  a  fence  which 


SOBAPSQUA  97 

ran  across  nearly  to  the  woods  and  divided  the 
pasture  from  a  meadow.  The  desired  point  was 
scarcely  reached  when  I  saw  the  fox  break  cover,  a 
tawny  dot  in  the  woodside,  now  growing  and  grow- 
ing into  distinctive  form  as  it  rapidly  drew  nearer 
along  a  cowpath  that  ran  close  beside  the  fence. 
Now  he  was  not  more  than  two  gunshots  from  me, 
the  butt  of  the  gun  was  at  my  shoulder,  my  finger 
touching  the  trigger,  and  I  could  almost  feel  this 
fellow's  pelt  in  my  right  pocket  comfortably  bal- 
ancing the  one  in  my  left,  when  a  herd  of  young 
cattle  discovered  him  and  charging  in  a  mad 
stampede  drove  him  through  the  fence  into  the 
meadow,  across  which  he  took  a  diagonal  course, 
well  out  of  my  range.  I  fired  with  a  forlorn  hope 
of  crippling  him,  but  only  increased  the  velocity 
of  the  ruddy  streak  which  vanished  in  an  instant 
and  left  the  world  a  blank. 

Presently  the  leaden  sky  came  closer  to  the  earth, 
and  then  became  one  with  it  in  a  dense  snowfall, 
and  muffled  in  its  thick  veil  Gabriel's  trumpet  notes 
sounded  faintly  far  away,  as  he  pottered  over  the 
blotted  scent.  The  six  miles'  tramp  home  was  leg- 
wearying,  as  all  can  testify  who  have  taken  so  long 
a  walk  in  the  first  snow,  but  my  luck  had  been  good 
enough  and  I  should  have  been  satisfied,  yet  the 
vanishing  form  of  that  fox  stood  forth  then  as  it 
stands  even  now  in  unpleasant  distinctness,  clearer 
than  aught  else  in  the  day's  events. 


98  SOBAPSQUA 

Immense  flocks  of  ducks  used  to  cruise  along 
the  shores  and  come  out  on  the  shelving  rocks, 
sometimes  in  very  dangerous  places,  where  am- 
bushed gunners  lay  in  wait  to  rake  the  huddled 
throng  with  a  charge  of  BB  shot.  In  some  cases  a 
dozen  or  more  were  killed  by  a  single  discharge. 
Frank  Brady  got  eighteen  with  two  barrels.  Old 
Justin  Cyr  killed  as  many  with  one  discharge  of 
his  ancient  Queen's  arm.  This  was  very  unsports- 
manlike, and  in  no  wise  to  be  compared  with  the 
exploits  of  men  who  kill  a  hundred  ducks  on  the 
wing  in  a  day's  shooting  and  are  still  unsatisfied. 
Our  pot-hunters  fired  but  one  shot  and  went  home 
quite  content  with  the  result,  and  from  year  to 
year  there  was  no  noticeable  decrease  in  the  num- 
bers of  waterfowl  till  the  generation  of  "true 
sportsmen"  with  improved  weapons  began  to 
multiply. 

It  is  not  to  be  denied  that  there  is  a  degree  of 
excitement  in  the  stealthy  approach  to  a  flock  of 
wary,  dusky  ducks,  or  in  lying  in  wait,  silent  and 
motionless,  for  them  to  swim  within  range,  mean- 
while observing  the  autumnal  beauty  of  earth  and 
sky  out  of  the  corners  of  one's  eyes,  sniffing  the 
fragrant  odor  of  ripe  leaves,  and  listening  to  the 
pulse  of  lazy  ripples,  and  undeniably  there  is  a 
satisfaction  in  the  successful  shot.  Nevertheless 
it  was  pot-hunting  that  one  should  blush  with 
shame  for  having  indulged  in,  yet  somehow  I  do 


SOBAPSQUA  99 

not,  only  as  the  recollection  of  some  inexcusably 
bad  shot  comes  back  to  me. 

I  am  glad  I  do  not  know  how  a  man  feels  after 
shooting  a  hundred  ducks  that  have  flown  past  his 
stand  or  stooped  to  his  decoys  in  one  day.  It  seems 
to  me  that  one  should  feel  remorse  rather  than 
exultation  for  such  a  feat. 

The  beautiful  island  in  the  north  bay  which 
was  called  Birch  Island  when  I  first  knew  it,  clad 
then  with  a  thick  growth  of  white  birch  and  cedar, 
was  a  beloved  resort  of  ducks,  and  its  secluded 
shores  were  seldom  disturbed  by  gunners.  By 
change  of  ownership  its  name  became  Yale's,  then 
Holmes's,  and  is  now  Putnam's  after  the  present 
owner,  who  has  a  handsome  summer  house  there 
and  has  so  improved  the  place  that  the  wild  ducks 
have  forsaken  it. 

I  think  this  may  be  the  place  where  the  devoted 
missionary,  Isaac  Jogues,  ran  the  gantlet  and 
suffered  other  tortures  from  his  savage  captors 
while  he  and  his  fellow-captives  were  being  carried 
to  the  Mohawk  country,  for  though  by  no  means 
situated  on  the  southern  part  of  the  lake,  it  is  the 
southernmost  island  which  answers  at  all  the  de- 
scription given  of  the  halting-place  of  the  war 
party,  by  Parkman,  in  his  "The  Jesuits  in  North 
America  " : 

"On  the  eighth  day  they  learned  that  a  large 
Iroquois  war  party,  on  their  way  to  Canada,  were 


100  SOBAPSQUA 

near  at  hand;  and  they  soon  approached  their 
camp,  on  a  small  island  near  the  southern  end  of 
Lake  Champlain.  The  warriors,  two  hundred  in 
number,  saluted  their  victorious  countrymen  with 
volleys  from  their  guns;  then,  armed  with  clubs 
and  thorny  sticks,  ranged  themselves  in  two  lines, 
between  which  the  captives  were  compelled  to  pass 
up  the  side  of  a  rocky  hill.  On  the  way  they  were 
beaten  with  such  fury  that  Jogues,  who  was  last 
in  the  line,  fell  powerless,  drenched  in  blood  and 
half  dead.  As  the  chief  man  among  the  French 
captives,  he  fared  the  worst.  His  hands  were 
again  mangled,  and  fires  applied  to  his  body; 
while  the  Huron  chief,  Eustache,  was  subjected  to 
tortures  even  more  atrocious.  When,  at  night,  the 
exhausted  sufferers  tried  to  rest,  the  young  warriors 
came  to  lacerate  their  wounds  and  pull  out  their 
hair  and  beards." 

One  can  hardly  realize  that  scenes  now  so 
steeped  in  the  serenity  of  peace  should  ever  have 
witnessed  such  barbarities. 

The  shores  of  this  island  can  no  longer  tempt 
me,  as  they  once  did  years  and  years  ago,  to  steal 
a  boat  wherewith  to  get  close  to  the  congregation 
of  ducks  assembled  in  and  about  them  on  that 
October  Sunday.  My  companion  and  I  broke 
two  commandments  and  were  not  penitent,  but 
I  trust  Heaven  forgave  us,  for  we  were  only 
boys  and  returned  the  boat  just  as  we  found  it, 


SOBAPSQUA  101 

and  got  nine  lusty,  dusky  ducks,  half  as  big  as 
geese. 

John  Hough,  an  old  man  whose  memory  ran 
back  to  the  last  days  of  deer-hunting  here,  told  me 
that  the  deer,  started  on  Mount  Philo,  used  to  run 
to  water  at  Thompson's  Point,  as  the  lay  of  the 
land  would  lead  one  to  guess. 

Here  the  relentless  slayers  of  the  last  deer  lay  in 
wait  for  their  prey,  while,  faint  and  far  away,  the 
hound's  first  notes  drifting  down  the  wind-blown 
crest  of  Mount  Philo,  then  swelling  to  a  jangle  of 
echoes  in  the  nearer  woods,  the  hunted  deer 
plunged  into  the  lake  and  the  rifle  spat  out  its 
spiteful  charge,  or  the  long  smooth-bore  belched 
forth  its  double  charge  of  ball  and  buckshot,  and 
the  rocky  steeps  of  Sobapsqua,  offering  life  and 
safety,  faded  out  of  the  glazing  eyes. 

The  days  of  the  deer  were  long  ago  when  the 
Point  was  still  a  half  wilderness,  and  the  days  of 
the  fox  and  the  wild  duck  are  almost  fallen  into 
the  past,  for  the  place  has  become  a  fashionable 
resort,  and  is  populous  with  deluded  people  who 
imagine  themselves  to  be  camping  out.  In  fact, 
they  live  luxuriously  in  furnished  cottages,  with 
carpets  on  their  floors  and  cushioned  chairs,  and 
have  dinners  of  divers  courses,  with  napery  of 
fine  linen  and  service  of  choice  ware.  I  am  told 
that  they  not  only  undress  to  go  to  bed  at  night, 
but  that  the  women-folk  actually  change  their 


102  SOBAPSQUA 

elegant  apparel  two  or  three  times  during  the  day. 
Poor  souls !  little  they  know  of  the  freedom  of  real 
camp-life,  the  comfort  of  one  shabby  suit  that  does 
service  day  and  night,  the  disenthrallment  from 
the  care  of  tableware,  and  the  cleansing  of  many 
utensils  from  over-neatness  and  punctilious  eti- 
quette, but  yet  not  from  true  politeness. 

Scaffolded  on  mattressed  bedsteads  over  car- 
peted floors,  how  shall  they  so  much  as  guess  what 
restful  sleep  comes  to  him  who  lies  close  to  the 
bosom  of  Mother  Earth,  with  naught  between  but 
a  blanket  and  a  litter  of  fragrant  cedar  twigs? 
What  poor  comradeship  must  there  be  among 
those  who  gather  around  a  black  stove,  compared 
with  such  as  encircle  the  genial  blaze  of  a  camp- 
fire,  and  how  shall  those  feel  themselves  near  to 
Nature  who  are  shut  from  the  sky  and  the  woods 
by  wooden  walls  and  roofs? 

The  best  of  camp-life  is  in  escaping  from  the 
wearisome  burdens  of  civilization  and  in  some 
measure  renewing  the  old  relationship  with  Na- 
ture. 

The  change  has  been  even  greater  on  the  other 
side  of  the  north  bay  at  Cedar  Beach,  which  has 
undergone  a  change  of  name  as  well  as  of  character 
since  the  time  when  we  followed  fugitive  foxes 
from  Thompson's  Point  thither,  or  made  fresh 
starts  among  the  vulpine  residents  of  its  wild  seclu- 
sion. It  was  known  as  McNiell's  Point  then,  after 


SOBAPSQUA  103 

its  pioneer  owner,  who  established  a  ferry  just 
north  of  it,  which  was  continued  by  his  descendants 
with  various  craft  —  sloops,  horse-boats,  and  a 
natty  little  steamboat.  It  was  a  famous  thorough- 
fare until  the  building  of  the  railroad,  which  revo- 
lutionized everything.  Then  there  were  no  more 
great  droves  of  cattle  making  leisurely  progress 
toward  Boston  on  the  hoof,  nor  any  longer  much 
faring  to  and  fro  across  the  ferry  on  the  business  of 
traffic  or  visiting,  and  the  idle  ferryman  and  the 
guestless  publican  lounged  on  the  rotting  wharf  in 
mutual  condolence. 

Yet  the  little  wilderness  on  the  Point,  seldom 
invaded  by  human  kind  except  the  infrequent 
woodman,  the  more  infrequent  meditative  woods 
lounger  and  the  hunter,  and  throbbing  in  spring- 
time with  the  beat  of  the  partridge's  drum,  ringing 
all  summer  long  with  the  songs  of  a  multitude  of 
birds,  echoing  in  the  golden  days  of  autumn  with 
the  melody  of  hounds,  still  preserved  its  sylvan 
seclusion  and  kept  its  homely  name,  till  it  was  dis- 
covered by  some  "hey  due"  explorers,  who  re- 
christened  it  and  made  it  fashionable. 

Spick-and-span  cottages,  even  elegant  resi- 
dences, are  built  upon  its  heights;  a  steamer 
comes  to  it  regularly  twice  a  day  during  the  sum- 
mer, and  the  thronged  woods  are  noisy  with  gay 
pleasure-seekers. 

It  is  all  spoiled  for  us  old-fashioned  camp- 


104  SOBAPSQUA 

dwellers,  but  no  more,  perhaps,  than  our  barbarous 
modes  would  spoil  it  for  these  dainty  folk.  I  can 
imagine  how  their  sensibilities  would  be  shocked  at 
the  sight  of  our  uncouth  living,  our  lairs  of  boughs 
and  blankets,  our  unnapered  table,  with  the  frying- 
pan  serving  for  platter  and  common  plate,  no  less 
than  our  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things  is  hurt  by 
this  flaunting  of  fashion  in  the  face  of  Nature. 

They  wonder  at  our  ways,  we  at  theirs,  being 
unable  to  understand  what  they  can  find  in  all 
that  they  enjoy  to  compensate  for  what  we  have 
lost  —  the  freedom  from  care  and  conventionalities 
that  were  ours  in  these  wild  corners,  when  the 
click  of  the  croquet  ball,  the  incongruous  jingle  of 
pianos,  and  the  babble  of  human  voices  did  not 
overbear  the  whispers  of  the  wind  in  the  trees,  the 
songs  of  birds  and  the  soft  laps  of  waves  on  quiet 
shores. 


BLACK-BASS-FISHING  IN 
SUNGAHNEETUK 

AMONG  the  Vermont  rivers  emptying  into  Lake 
Champlain  that  were  once  salmon  streams,  is  the 
beautiful  little  river  which  the  Indians  named 
"Sungahneetuk,"  the  "Fishing-Place  River." 
The  salmon  long  since  ceased  to  inhabit  any  of 
these,  only  now  and  then  a  straggler  being  taken 
even  in  the  lake.  Our  Fish  Commissioners  have 
tried  to  reestablish  the  salmon  in  the  rivers  he 
once  made  famous;  but,  barred  with  dams,  their 
unshaded  waters  heated  and  shrunken,  thick  with 
sawdust  and  the  wash  of  cultivated  lands,  and 
poisoned  with  chemicals  from  mills  and  factories, 
they  have  undergone  changes  too  great  to  allow 
them  again  to  become  his  home.  They  are  rivers 
yet,  but  not  the  cool  and  limpid  realms  whereof  he 
was  lord  paramount  in  the  old  days,  and  it  is  no 
longer  worth  his  while  to  battle  the  swift  currents 
of  the  Saint  Lawrence  and  run  the  gantlet  of  the 
Richelieu  nets  to  come  to  his  own  again. 

In  Sungahneetuk  and  in  other  streams,  his 
ancient  heritage,  he  has  a  smaller  yet  worthy 
successor,  almost  as  game  for  his  size,  and  ranking 
high  among  food-fishes.  Hardy,  prolific,  armed 
defensively  with  firm  scales  and  a  dorsal  bristling 


106    BASS-FISHING  IN  SUNGAHNEETUK 

with  spines,  offensively  with  stout,  sharp  teeth  set 
in  strong  jaws,  the  black  bass  holds  his  own  against 
changed  conditions  and  aquatic  enemies,  and  owns 
no  fish  of  these  waters  his  master,  unless  it  be  the 
gar-pike,  or  bill-fish,  a  fish  so  invulnerably  mailed 
and  murderously  weaponed  as  to  be  assailed  or 
withstood  by  no  other. 

Protection  has  done  wonders  for  the  bass,  for 
all  they  needed  was  to  be  let  alone  during  spawn- 
ing-time, and  wherever  the  law  has  been  enforced 
they  have  greatly  increased  in  numbers.  Up  to 
the  passage  of  a  protective  fish  law,  in  1874,  it  had 
been  the  common  practice  here  with  all  who  angled, 
either  for  pleasure  or  profit,  to  catch  these  fish  on 
their  spawning-beds  in  June.  Whoever  had  eyes 
sharp  enough  to  spy  out  the  beds  under  the  tangle 
of  ripples  and  knots  of  foam  in  the  shallows  or  be- 
neath the  slow  current  of  the  translucent  gray- 
green  depths  had  only  to  cast  his  hook,  no  matter 
how  unskillfully  masked  with  a  worm,  and  the 
alert  parent  fish  would  rush  to  remove  the  intruder 
from  the  sacred  precincts,  seizing  it  in  her  mouth 
and  dropping  it  well  outside  the  bed,  if  left  to  have 
her  own  way  with  it.  But  just  in  the  nick  of  time 
the  angler  came  in,  and,  striking,  fastened  his  fish, 
which  ten  times  to  one  was  hauled  forth  at  once  by 
stout  pole  and  line,  without  a  chance  for  life,  to 
spend  her  strength  in  useless  threshing  of  the 
daisies  and  clover.  It  was  not  always  done  in  this 


BASS-FISHING  IN  SUNGAHNEETUK    107 

butcherly  manner,  but  it  was  done  in  some  way 
by  almost  every  one  who  fished  at  all,  and  at  best 
was  a  miserable  business. 

The  undiscovered  and  fruitful  beds  were  few, 
the  barren  and  orphaned  ones  many,  and  if  the 
streams  had  been  their  only  spawning-places  the 
bass  must  have  been  almost  exterminated  by  such 
continual  persecution.  But  of  the  many  adven- 
turing through  stress  of  nature  up  the  rivers  some 
would  escape,  and  there  were  the  reefs  and  bars  of 
the  lake,  where  others  might  breed  undisturbed  by 
man,  and  so,  among  them  all,  perpetuate  their 
race  until  the  day  of  deliverance. 

The  bass,  having  hibernated  in  the  depths  dur- 
ing the  dead  months,  come  on  to  the  spawning- 
grounds  in  May,  and  shortly  after  set  about  mak- 
ing their  beds,  which,  when  finished,  are  shallow 
concavities,  in  diameter  about  twice  the  length  of 
the  fish,  and  from  the  time  of  completion  till  the 
hatching  of  the  eggs  are  most  vigilantly  guarded 
and  kept  scrupulously  clean.  The  eggs,  which  are 
attached  to  the  bottom  by  a  glutinous  coating, 
are  hatched  in  about  two  weeks  after  they  are  de- 
posited. If  a  pebble  or  waterlogged  chip  or  twig  is 
washed  onto  the  bed,  it  is  as  quickly  removed  as  is 
the  hook  of  the  angler,  and  all  animate  intruders 
are  summarily  driven  off.  The  infant  bass,  at 
their  first  hatching,  are  as  black  and  unpromising 
as  a  swarm  of  polliwogs  in  a  mud-puddle,  but 


108    BASS-FISHING  IN  SUNGAHNEETUK 

they  soon  disperse,  and  grow  rapidly,  and  early 
show  their  blood,  for,  long  before  fall,  little  fellows 
an  inch  and  a  hah*  in  length  may  be  seen  chasing 
minnows  as  big  as  themselves.  When  the  spawning- 
season  is  well  over  and  the  law  off,  the  bass  have 
returned  to  the  lake;  but  in  the  few  days  spent  by 
them  in  the  stream  before  spawning  and  the  begin- 
ning of  the  close  time,  the  angler  is  given  a  chance 
to  take  them  in  a  perfectly  legitimate  manner.  It 
is  of  one  of  these  days'  fishing  along  this  beautiful 
stream,  that,  if  not  done  very  scientifically  or  with 
costly  tackle,  yet  was  not  unfairly  done,  that  I 
have  to  tell. 

Sungahneetuk  winds  its  first  slender  thread 
around  the  ledges  of  the  western  slope  of  the  Green 
Mountains,  but  soon  gathers  to  it  the  strands  of 
brooks  spun  out  from  ponds  and  swamps  and 
springs,  and  in  a  little  while  becomes  strong  enough 
for  the  turning  of  mills.  Many  of  these  of  different 
kinds  are  lodged  beside  it,  grinding  grist  for  the 
food  of  men,  weaving  cloth  for  then-  raiment,  sawing 
boards  for  their  cradles,  shelter,  and  coffins.  These 
three  kinds  of  mills  are  all  in  a  huddle,  along  with 
stores  and  shoemakers'  and  blacksmiths'  shops,  at 
Nutting's  Curse,  the  lowest  falls  now  so  used,  as 
if  they  had  drifted  down  stream  and  grounded 
there,  three  miles  above  where  the  widened  stream 
is  woven  into  the  broad  sheet  of  Champlain. 

Half  a  mile  below  these  mills,  on  a  sunny  morn- 


BASS-FISHING  IN  SUNGAHNEETUK    109 

ing  of  a  mid-May  day,  I  begin  my  fishing.  The 
river  has  drawn  itself  from  the  narrow  environ- 
ment of  hills,  and  winds  among  intervales  ankle- 
deep  with  young  grass,  where  newly  turned-out 
kine  are  feeding  greedily  and  new-come  bobolinks 
are  loudly  rejoicing.  By  a  thicket  of  alders, 
broadly  margining  and  overhanging  quiet  waters, 
where  foam-bells  moulded  in  the  last  rapids  swing 
in  the  slow  eddies,  I  put  my  rod  together.  It  is  of 
hardback,  hop  hornbeam,  ironwood,  lever-wood 
—  well,  Ostrya  Virginica,  a  wood  which  I  have  long 
believed  the  best  of  our  native  trees  for  rod-mak- 
ing —  and  I  have  had  it  made  for  me  by  a  cunning 
workman.  It  is  in  three  pieces  and  of  unorthodox 
length  —  fifteen  feet.  The  books  say  eight  feet  is 
the  proper  length  for  a  bass-rod;  but  how  could 
one  reach  over  these  alders  or  the  thickets  of  wil- 
lows lower  downstream  with  such  a  stick?  The 
slender  line  is  rove  through  the  guides,  the  hook 
with  its  gut  snell  bent  on,  and  Monsieur  Ruisseau, 
sometime  since  of  Canada,  comes  forward  with 
the  bait-kettle  —  "minny-pail,"  we  call  it.  He 
dives  therein  halfway  to  his  elbows  more  than  once 
to  no  purpose,  for  lively  minnows  are  slippery  cus- 
tomers, but  at  last  brings  out  a  chub,  a  three-inch 
ingot,  half  of  silver,  hah*  of  brown  dross,  as  tri- 
umphantly as  if  he  had  landed  a  salmon,  remark- 
ing, as  he  hands  it  over,  "Dar!  I'ms  got  de  coss. 
He's  nice  leetly  feller,  don't  it?" 


110    BASS-FISHING  IN  SUNGAHNEETUK 

Indeed  he  is,  and  I  breathe  a  silent  prayer  for 
him  and  myself  as  I  impale  the  little  wretch  just 
forward  of  the  dorsal.  May  a  big  bass  take  him 
speedily,  and  may  I  be  forgiven  for  my  cruelty! 
This  baiting  the  hook  is  the  wickedness  of  fishing 
that  one  is  sorry  for.  Five  minutes  later  one  is  apt 
to  be  angry  with  the  tortured,  gasping  wretch  be- 
cause he  does  not  swim  deeper.  This  one  is  most 
obedient  to  my  wishes,  and  at  once  sounds  the 
depths,  where  I  tenderly  cast  him  just  under  the 
bank  at  my  feet.  The  slack  of  the  line  is  slowly 
taken  up,  till  I  can  feel  the  f aint  tug  of  his  laborious 
swimming,  and  with  bated  breath  I  watch  and 
wait  to  feel  the  stronger  tug  of  a  bass  seizing  him. 
It  does  not  come,  and  I  cast  again  and  again,  far 
and  near,  with  no  stronger  responses,  till  it  begins 
to  grow  doubtful  whether  there  are  any  bass  here, 
or,  at  least,  any  hungry  ones. 

I  lose  interest  a  little  in  the  water,  and  take  time 
to  note  how  thickly  the  dandelions  are  dotting  the 
grass  and  setting  in  their  gold  the  amethyst  tufts 
of  violets;  how  the  bobolinks  are  rollicking  over 
them  and  the  sparrows  trilling  their  happy  songs ; 
how  busy  the  robins  are  with  their  nest-building, 
their  short  play-day  already  ended;  then  how  all 
these  marginal  thickets  of  alder  and  willow  are 
bent  downstream  with  the  stress  of  the  spring 
floods,  and  even  the  topmost  twigs  are  clothed 
with  knots  of  begrimed  leaves  and  looped  wisps  of 


BASS-FISHING  IN  SUNGAHNEETUK    111 

grass  of  last  year's  growth.  I  note,  too,  the  fresh- 
water flotsam  here  stranded,  of  chips,  cobs,  slabs, 
bits  of  board,  and  rails  from  upstream  mills  and 
farms,  with  a  child's  rude  toy  boat,  dismantled  and 
unhelmed  in  its  wild  voyage,  grounded  on  its  ant- 
hill Ararat,  while  some  little  chap  among  the  hills 
is  yet  searching  the  pebbly  shores  and,  with  as 
fond,  vain  hopes  as  ours,  shading  his  eyes  to  descry 
his  small  ship  sailing  back  from  Spain.  Here  is  a 
paddle  gone  adrift  from  its  boat,  and  the  cover  of 
a  minnow-can,  with  rusting  hasp  and  hinges  still 
clinging  to  it  —  signs  of  boatmen  and  fishermen 
in  upper  waters. 

Ruisseau  has  grown  listless  too,  and  for  the  last 
five  minutes  has  given  me  no  advice  nor  made  any 
disparaging  comments  on  my  rod  and  line,  which 
he  thinks  too  slender.  When  he  goes  fishing  he  has 
a  spar  of  white  cedar  for  a  rod  and  corresponding 
cordage  for  a  line.  "  Dat  's  de  way  I  'ms  feesh  in 
Canady."  He  has  changed  the  water  in  the  bait- 
kettle,  and  is  taking  his  ease  on  the  grass,  with  his 
pipe  in  full  blast,  the  fumes  pervading  a  cubic 
acre  of  May-day  air.  Suddenly  a  snap  and  splash 
under  the  farther  bank  brings  him  upright  and 
alert  and  recalls  me  from  the  borders  of  dream- 
land. "Dar!  Dar!  Pull  off  you' line  an' trow  him 
ove'  dar,"  pointing  with  both  hands,  one  empha- 
sized with  his  black  pipe,  to  the  widening  circles. 

Meekly  obedient  to  my  hired  master,  I  make  a 


112    BASS-FISHING  IN  SUNGAHNEETUK 

long  cast,  and,  as  much  by  luck  as  skill,  deliver  my 
minnow,  now  almost  at  his  last  gasp,  in  the  middle 
of  the  concentric  rings  of  wavelets.  Scarcely  has 
his  fall  startled  the  reflections  of  bank,  bush,  and 
grass-tuft  to  livelier  dancing,  when  the  surface  is 
again  broken  by  a  sullen  seething,  in  the  midst  of 
which  is  dimly  seen  the  shining  green  broadside  of 
a  bass.  The  time  given  him  for  gorging  the  bait 
seems  nearer  five  minutes  than  the  quarter  of  one 
during  which  the  line  vibrates  with  slight  jerks  and 
then  tightens  with  a  steady  pull  as  I  strike,  and  an 
angry  tug  tells  me  that  he  is  fast.  Now  the  line 
cuts  the  water  with  a  tremulous  swish,  and  the  rod 
bends  like  a  bulrush  hi  a  gale,  as  the  stricken  fish 
battles  upstream  in  a  wide  sweep,  then  shoots  to 
the  surface  and  three  feet  into  the  air,  an  emerald 
rocket,  showering  pearls  and  crystals.  I  do  not 
know  whether  I  let  my  "rod  straighten"  or  "pull 
him  over  into  the  water,"  but  somehow  he  gets 
back  there  without  having  rid  himself  of  the 
barbed  unpleasantness  in  his  jaw,  and  then  makes 
a  rush  downstream,  varied  with  sharp  zigzags,  end- 
ing in  another  aerial  flight  as  unavailing  as  the 
first.  Then  he  bores  his  way  toward  a  half-sunken 
log,  thinking  to  swim  under  it  and  so  get  a  dead 
strain  on  the  line;  but  a  steady  pull  stops  him  just 
short  of  it.  Then  he  sounds  the  depths  to  rub  the 
hook  out  on  the  bottom,  for  he  is  a  fellow  of  ex- 
pedients; but  the  spring  of  the  rod  lifts  him  above 


BASS-FISHING  IN  SUNGAHNEETUK    113 

this  last  help.  He  has  exhausted  his  devices,  and 
now  makes  feeble  rushes  in  small  circles  and  zig- 
zags and  a  final  nerveless  leap  not  hah*  his  length 
out  of  water.  He  has  fought  valiantly  for  life  and 
liberty,  but  fortune  has  been  against  him.  After  a 
few  more  abortive  struggles,  he  turns  up  his  side  to 
the  sky,  and  is  towed,  almost  unresistingly,  along- 
side the  bank.  Ruisseau  lifts  him  out  trium- 
phantly, swearing,  Catholic  though  he  is,  by  a 
Puritan  saint:  "Ba  John  Roger!  Dat's  de  bes' 
'snago  I  have  ketch  in  my  remember ! "  We  test  his 
weight  with  our  eyes  and  forefingers,  and  put  it  at 
four  pounds.  Fairbanks's  and  Howe's  contrivances 
might  make  it  less  by  a  pound  or  more;  but  they 
are  unsatisfactory  scales  for  anglers'  use. 

The  hook  is  rebaited,  and  a  cast  made  beside 
the  sunken  log,  and  quickly  answered  by  a  petu- 
lant little  bite  that  robs  me  of  a  minnow. 

"A  cossed  leetly  rock-bass,"  Ruisseau  says,  and 
advises,  "Put  a  wamm  on  de  hook  and  ketch  'im 
off  de  water." 

But  the  smallest  minnow  in  the  pail  captures 
him,  and  the  miserable,  bony,  greedy,  watery,  big- 
mouthed  little  thief  is  hauled  forth  without  cere- 
mony. How  one  can  praise  him  for  anything  but 
his  moderate  beauty,  the  only  virtue  he  has,  is  a 
wonder  to  me.  The  despised  sunfish  is  handsomer, 
a  better  table-fish,  and  as  great  a  nuisance,  yet  no 
one  praises  him.  Doubtless  the  rock-bass  has  left 


114    BASS-FISHING  IN  SUNGAHNEETUK 

a  half-dozen  of  his  thievish  brethren  in  ambush 
behind  him,  and,  rather  than  bother  with  them, 
I  move  on. 

The  next  fish  that  tries  to  rob  me  of  a  bait  in- 
tended for  his  betters  and  is  sent  grazing  for  his 
tricks  is  a  perch  —  a  far  handsomer  fellow,  in  his 
bars  of  gold  and  dusky  green,  than  the  little  bass, 
and,  to  my  taste,  worth  a  dozen  of  him  on  the 
table. 

So  we  fare  downstream,  taking  here  and  there  a 
bass  of  the  right  sort  from  deep  holes,  under  banks, 
and  hi  mid-channel,  and  from  the  slack-water  on 
the  lower  side  of  the  boulders,  in  no  particularly 
different  way  from  that  in  which  the  first  was 
taken.  Some  are  ingloriously  lost:  but  the  bass 
should  not  be  grudged  their  share  of  the  sport, 
which  must  lie  in  foiling  the  angler's  arts.  Besides, 
the  fish  that  is  hooked  and  gets  away  may  live  to  be 
caught  another  day,  and  for  the  time  of  exemption 
from  creel  and  pan  pay  interest  of  a  half-pound  or 
more:  only  one  is  not  apt  to  fancy  such  uncertain 
usury,  especially  when  the  fish  is  of  two  or  three 
pounds'  present  worth. 

Thus  we  come  to  the  lower  falls,  where  in  old 
times  the  incoming  salmon  doubtless  paid  heavy 
tribute  to  the  Indians  as  they  scaled  the  first  ram- 
part of  ledges  that  barred  their  yearly  invasion. 
This  is  the  last  mill-seat  on  the  stream,  where  not 
many  years  ago  the  screech  of  the  saw  was  heard 


BASS-FISHING  IN  SUNGAHNEETUK    115 

above  the  rush  of  waters.  It  is  silent  now,  its 
occupation  gone.  A  mossy  roof,  broken  and  sagged 
with  the  snows  of  many  winters,  scantily  sheltering 
reeling  posts,  unmoving  wheels  rotting  and  rusting 
among  weeds  and  sprouts  of  willows,  and  a  drift  of 
rotten  sawdust,  a  flume  so  dry  that  the  sun  shines 
through  it  and  birds  build  their  nests  in  it,  a 
grassy  embankment,  and  a  few  ice-battered  tim- 
bers of  the  dam  feebly  reaching  out  against  the 
flood,  are  all  that  are  left  of  the  old  mill  and  its 
once  busy  life.  A  half-dozen  mouldering  logs  that 
came  too  late  for  sawing  represent  its  unperformed 
work,  so  near  did  it  come  to  living  out  its  days. 
Just  below,  a  little  island  splits  the  stream  un- 
equally, leaving  on  that  side  a  shallow  rapid 
scarcely  covering  the  pebbly  bottom,  on  this  a 
deep  current  that  seethes  along  its  swift  and 
narrow  way.  Into  the  head  of  this  I  cast  my  bait, 
and  it  goes  whirling  along  it,  now  tossed  to  the 
surface,  now  tumbled  along  the  bottom.  For  an 
instant  the  rod  bends  and  jerks  as  the  slack  of  the 
line  is  taken  up  by  the  force  of  the  current,  then 
curves  into  a  drawn  bow  from  tip  to  reel  with  a 
strong,  sudden  pull  that  makes  the  line  twang  like 
a  bow-string.  This  is  a  hungry  fellow,  who  makes 
no  cat's  play  with  his  prey,  but  gorges  it  at  the  first 
snap.  How  lustily  he  pulls,  with  the  swirling  tor- 
rent to  help  him !  If  I  should  lose  him,  he  would 
go  for  a  four-pounder  at  least.  Keeping  a  steady 


116    BASS-FISHING  IN  SUNGAHNEETUK 

strain  on  him,  but  letting  him  take  a  little  line  off 
the  reel  and  piloting  him  clear  of  rocks  and  roots, 
I  follow  him  slowly  to  quieter  waters  below, 
where  we  fight  it  out,  and  the  land  force  is  vic- 
torious. With  the  utmost  tenderness  toward  the 
scales,  he  could  not  be  made  to  tip  them  at  above 
two  pounds:  so  I  have  lost  half  my  fish  by  saving 
him. 

The  next  shallow  reach  of  the  winding  stream 
leads  us  toward  the  blue  haze  of  the  Adirondacks, 
lifted  above  the  tender  green  of  the  near  woods. 
At  the  next,  the  shorn  slopes  and  bristling  ridge  of 
our  own  Mount  Philo  front  us,  and  another  draws 
us  close  to  a  hillside  soft  with  leafing  tamaracks. 
None  of  these  reaches  give  any  return  for  careful 
fishing.  Then  we  come  to  one  most  promising  of 
bass,  where  the  deep,  slow  current  slides  through 
an  aisle  of  overhanging  basswoods,  elms,  and  ashes, 
and  then  under  a  prostrate  trunk,  with  its  catch 
of  driftwood,  as  promising  of  fouled  hooks,  and  in 
neither  respect  am  I  disappointed.  My  minnow 
has  hardly  struck  the  water  when  it  is  contended 
for  by  three  or  four  hungry  bass.  In  this  case  the 
devil  takes  the  foremost,  who  in  a  jiffy  gets  the 
hook  fast  in  his  mouth,  and,  as  he  darts  this  way 
and  that  to  rid  himself  of  it,  is  closely  followed  by 
his  companions  —  who  knows  whether  envious, 
curious,  or  sympathizing?  A  little  later  two  of  them 
lie  with  him  among  the  clover.  The  next  cast  is 


BASS-FISHING  IN  SUNGAHNEETUK    117 

too  near  the  driftwood.  The  minnow  gets  among 
it,  and  the  hook  is  snagged.  Ruisseau  helps  me 
out  of  the  scrape  with  some  swearing  and  a  possibly 
more  effective  pole,  and  I  suffer  no  loss  but  of  time, 
patience,  a  hook,  and  part  of  a  snell.  The  re- 
maining bass  can  hardly  wait  for  their  turn  while 
I  am  bending  on  a  new  hook  and  rebaiting.  They 
come  close  to  the  surface,  underseeing  the  opera- 
tion, and  then  in  turn  they  are  served  out. 

The  next  loop  of  the  stream  is  cast  about  a 
wooded  bank,  and  in  it,  on  a  sandy  shallow,  is  a 
swarm  of  "rock,"  or  "sand  pike,"  handsome  little 
fellows,  with  barred  sides,  the  largest  among  them 
not  exceeding  four  inches  in  length.  All  are  hug- 
ging the  golden,  shimmering  bottom,  casting  their 
spawn  and  milt. 

In  a  deeper  rapid  three  or  four  large  suckers 
are  heading  the  swift  current,  as  motionless  as  if 
moored  there.  A  boy,  with  a  noose  of  brass  wire 
at  the  end  of  a  pole,  is  trying  to  snare  one,  for  our 
suckers  are  true  to  then'  name,  and  never  bite. 
After  much  slow  and  careful  maneuvering,  he  gets 
it  midway  inside  the  noose,  and  with  a  vigorous 
pull  throws  it  out,  and  there  is  a  happy  boy  and  a 
most  unhappy  fish. 

Presently  we  come  to  the  wide,  deep  pool  known 
as  the  "Dixon  Hole,"  and  under  its  sheltering 
elms  eat  our  lunch  and  moisten  it  with  Sungah- 
neetuk,  this  year's  vintage  of  mountain  snows, 


118    BASS-FISHING  IN  SUNGAHNEETUK 

and  dry  it  again  with  smoke  of  the  Virginian  and 
the  ranker  Northern  weed,  home-grown  by  Ruis- 
seau.  The  ashes  and  charred  brands  of  a  recent 
fishing-fire  remind  him  of  his  favorite  sport,  con- 
cerning which  he  discourses:  "I'd  drudder  feesh 
fo'  bull-pawt  as  basses."  This  he  does  at  night,  by 
the  cheerful  light  of  a  pine-knot  fire,  with  his  spar 
of  cedar  and  stout  line  and  big  hook  baited  with  a 
tangle  of  worms,  and  anchored  with  a  ponderous 
sinker,  the  splash  of  which,  when  he  casts  it, 
rouses  echoes  out  of  the  circle  of  gloom  which  sur- 
rounds him.  Sometimes  he  gets  a  hundred  bull- 
pouts  and  two  or  three  or  more  eels.  "An'  de  eel 
an'  de  bull-pawt  ees  de  bes'  feesh  I'ms  like,  ex- 
pectin'  shad":  by  which  he  means  to  except  the 
white  fish  of  the  lake,  known  here  as  "lake  shad." 
Ruisseau  having  reslain  his  thousands,  I  resume 
actual  fishing,  and  soon  behold  a  monstrous  bass, 
who  lounges  leisurely  up  to  inspect  my  bait  and 
then  turns  contemptuously  away.  He  has  an  eye 
upon  me  through  the  limpid  depths.  He  is  a  vet- 
eran cruiser  of  these  waters,  and  knows  the  tricks 
of  men  —  a  philosopher  who  can  trace  effect  back 
to  cause,  from  struggling  minnow  along  line  and 
rod  to  the  guiding  hand  on  shore.  Again  and  again 
I  tempt  him,  to  no  purpose,  and  then  reluctantly 
leave  him,  to  try  for  less  sophisticated  fish  below, 
but  noting  his  haunt  by  a  certain  bush.  A  little 
later  I  return,  making  a  wide  detour,  and,  when  I 


BASS-FISHING  IN  SUNGAHNEETUK    119 

near  the  marked  bush,  drop  on  my  hands  and 
knees,  and  so  get  within  six  feet  of  the  brink  with- 
out seeing  the  water  or  being  seen  by  any  of  its 
denizens,  and  lightly  drop  my  minnow  out  of 
sight  behind  the  grassy  bank.  The  trick  succeeds : 
here  is  a  minnow  without  a  man,  and  the  lord  of 
the  pool  seizes  his  tribute  at  sight  and  is  fast  at  the 
first  snap.  Then  the  tough  fibers  of  the  lithe  rod 
are  tried  to  their  utmost,  first  to  keep  him  from 
gaining  the  vantage-ground  of  some  sunken  logs 
and  brush,  then  to  lead  him  to  a  clearer  field, 
when  he  makes  a  rush,  spinning  fifteen  yards  of 
retarded  line  off  the  reel,  and,  with  a  surging  leap, 
flies  into  the  air,  shakes  the  hook  from  his  mouth, 
and  leaves  me  disconsolate.  It  is  small  consolation 
to  think  that  I  have  added  to  his  wisdom  and  that 
he  will  not  dare  touch  another  minnow  for  a  week 
—  as  small  as  that  contained  in  Ruisseau's  "I  'ms 
tole  you  you'll  lost  him,  sartain."  Likely  enough 
before  he  has  forgotten  the  lesson  he  will  be 
dragged  ashore  in  an  unlawful  seine  or  smitten 
under  the  fifth  rib  by  a  spearer  prowling  by  torch- 
light. As  ignominious  was  the  death  of  the  last 
salmon  of  this  stream,  which,  tradition  says,  was 
speared  by  some  boys  with  a  pitchfork,  a  few  turns 
below  here,  on  a  June  day  sixty  years  ago. 

Slower  than  the  stream  flows  we  follow  it  where 
curling  deeps  promise  fruitfulness  of  fish,  trying 
every  foot  of  such  water,  sometimes  rewarded 


120    BASS-FISHING  IN  SUNGAHNEETUK 

with  the  fulfillment,  sometimes  not,  and  faster 
when  the  thin,  barren  current  ripples  over  pebbly 
and  sandy  shoals,  shortening  now  and  then  our 
course  a  half-mile  by  a  cross-cut  of  a  few  rods. 

Climbing  the  two  fences  of  a  road  and  passing 
its  bridge,  and  then  skirting  a  wide  thicket  of 
willows,  we  come  to  a  farm-bridge,  beside  which  an 
aged  Quakeress  is  fishing.  Perhaps  it  has  been 
"borne  hi  upon  her"  that  she  should  go  a-fishing 
to-day:  at  any  rate,  she  has  been  "greatly 
favored,"  and  shows  us  with  quiet  pride  a  goodly 
string  of  fish  tethered  under  the  abutment,  con- 
spicuous among  them  the  bristling  olive  backs  and 
golden-green  sides  of  half  a  dozen  fine  bass.  Look- 
ing upon  her  placid  face,  one  may  well  believe 
angling  a  gentle  art  if  it  can  draw  to  it  such  a 
saintly  devotee.  The  stream  has  grown  as  placid  as 
she,  and  now  winds  voiceless  between  its  willowy 
banks,  giving  no  sign  of  its  flow  but  by  some  glid- 
ing leaf  or  twig  and  the  arrowy  ripples  of  dipping 
branches  and  mid-stream  snags. 

Here  is  a  straight  reach,  hedged  on  one  side 
with  willows  tall  and  low,  interwoven  with  wild 
grapevines,  on  the  other  walled  with  a  green  bank 
topped  with  a  clump  of  second-growth  pines  and 
hemlocks.  Looking  back  through  this  vista,  we 
see  the  noble  peak  of  Tawabedeewadso,  bright  with 
last  winter's  snow,  shining  against  the  eastern  sky. 

On  the  opposite  bank  I  get  a  glimpse  of  a  rival 


BASS-FISHING  IN  SUNGAHNEETUK    121 

fisher  stealing  warily  through  the  thicket  in  a  coat 
now  rusty  and  ragged,  though  two  months  ago, 
sleek  and  glossy  enough.  Without  rod,  snare,  or 
spear,  the  mink  is  a  notable  destroyer  of  fish. 
Not  so  silent  is  the  kingfisher  that  comes  jerking 
his  way  through  the  air,  sending  his  rattling  cry 
before  him  and  leaving  its  echoes  clattering  far 
behind  him.  Now  he  hangs  as  if  suspended  by  a 
thread  while  he  scans  the  water  twenty  feet  be- 
neath him.  Then  the  thread  breaks,  and  he  drops 
headlong,  and,  almost  before  the  spray  of  his 
plunge  has  fallen,  rises  with  a  little  fish  on  his  short 
spear. 

Here,  too,  minnows  are  taken  in  succession  by 
some  fish  biting  differently  from  a  bass,  but  evi- 
dently larger  than  rock-bass  or  perch.  A  third 
minnow  is  offered  him  grudgingly,  for  frequent 
drafts  and  some  deaths  occurring  in  spite  of  half- 
hourly  changes  of  the  water  have  reduced  the  little 
prisoners  of  the  bait-kettle  to  a  dozen.  Success  has 
made  him  bold,  and  boldness  works  his  ruin,  for 
this  time  he  swallows  hook  and  bait.  He  swims 
deeper  than  the  bass,  and  as  stubbornly  for  a 
while,  but  gives  up  sooner,  and,  as  he  is  drawn 
gasping  alongside  the  bank,  proves  to  be  a  fine 
pike-perch  of  two  and  a  half  or  three  pounds' 
weight.  He  is  not  a  frequent  navigator  so  far  up 
the  stream,  but  is  often  caught  near  the  mouth  in 
adjacent  Wonakakatuk  and  in  great  numbers  in  the 


122    BASS-FISHING  IN  SUNGAHNEETUK 

lake,  notably  at  Kozoapsqua  and  Sobapsqua.  He 
is  handsome,  game,  and  in  every  way  a  good  fish. 

Again  my  hook  gets  foul  in  a  drift  of  brushwood, 
and  Ruisseau,  wading  out  to  clear  it,  again  lapses 
into  profanity  over  his  "jim  rubbits,  half  fill  of 
de  creek!"  With  the  Canuck,  india-rubber  is 
always  "jim  rubbit." 

As  the  stream  is  drawn  to  the  level  of  the  lake, 
its  character  changes  more  and  more.  The  sluggish 
current  sweeps  slowly  under  the  double-curved 
branches  of  great  water-maples,  whose  ice-scarred 
trunks  rise  from  low  banks  rank  with  sedge  and 
wild  grass  and  sloping  backward  to  wide,  marshy 
swamps,  where  we  hear  bitterns  booming,  rails 
cackling,  innumerable  frogs  piping  and  croaking, 
and  the  fine,  monotonous  chime  of  toads,  and 
mysterious  voices  that  may  be  those  of  birds  or  of 
reptiles  supposed  to  be  voiceless.  Every  stream-- 
ward-slanting log  now  has  its  row  of  basking 
turtles  that  tumble  off  at  our  approach,  and  the 
little  green  heron  launches  as  clumsily  from  his 
perch  in  the  tall  trees  and  goes  flapping  before  us. 
Now  our  way  is  barred  by  an  impassable  outlet  of 
the  swamp  on  one  side,  and  here  I  catch  the  last 
bass  of  the  day. 

A  swarm  of  little  fish,  the  biggest  not  an  inch 
long,  come  swimming  upstream,  a  school,  yards  in 
length,  hugging  our  shore.  As  here  and  there  a 
silver  side  flashes  in  the  sunlight,  it  is  as  if  a  suit 


BASS-FISHING  IN  SUNGAHNEETUK    123 

of  chain-armor  was  being  drawn  through  the 
water.  Now  a  swift  bolt  strikes  it  from  beneath, 
and  a  hundred  shining  links  are  driven  into  the 
air.  In  the  bubbling  swirl  beneath  the  break  I  see 
the  brazen  mail  of  a  bass,  and  a  few  feet  upstream 
I  drop  my  minnow,  a  prey  far  more  tempting  than 
these  atoms,  and  no  sooner  seen  than  seized.  In 
the  fight  that  ensues  I  have  some  trouble  to  lead 
him  to  a  fairer  field  and  a  proper  place  for  surren- 
der, to  do  which  he  must  be  got  over  a  sort  of 
boom  which  serves  for  a  water-fence,  being  a  single 
pole  spanning  the  stream,  in  the  middle  sagging  an 
inch  or  two  below  the  surface.  Shortening  my 
line  and  raising  the  tip  of  the  rod,  I  half  lift,  hah* 
drag  him  over  it,  and,  after  some  further  skirmish- 
ing, bring  him  to  shore,  and  Ruisseau,  wading  into 
the  mud  halfway  to  the  top  of  his  "jim  rubbits" 
to  rescue  him,  shows  himself  an  artist,  making  a 
bas-relief  in  clay. 

As  I  range  the  result  of  my  day's  sport  side  by 
side  along  the  sod,  a  comely  rank  of  fifteen  bass 
and  one  pike-perch,  Ruisseau  proudly  remarks, 
"I'ms  guess  dat  ole  wimmens  ain't  beat  me,  don't 
it?" 

The  sun  is  burning  the  low  clouds  and  setting 
the  western  edge  of  the  world  on  fire,  and  so,  mak- 
ing a  jail-delivery  of  our  few  remaining  minnows, 
we  turn  backward  on  our  long  shadows  and  wend 
Qur  way  homeward. 


ON  A  GLASS  ROOF 

WINTER  fishing  in  Northern  latitudes  is  not  the 
perfection  of  the  sport  of  angling.  It  lacks  many 
of  the  things  which  contribute  to  make  that  a  fine 
art  and  a  delightful  pastime.  The  fine  tackle  of  the 
fly-fisher  and  the  skill  to  handle  it  properly,  the 
long-contested  and  exciting  fight  between  man 
and  fish,  are  not  for  him  who  goes  fishing  in  winter. 
Neither  for  him  is  the  balmy  air  that  wafts  the 
odor  of  blossoms  and  voices  of  song-birds  and 
babble  of  free  streams,  nor  verdant  sward,  nor 
leafy  woods,  nor  glint  of  sunlit  waters.  In  fact, 
it  savors  somewhat  of  the  pot;  for  it  is  often  more 
the  object  to  get  fish  than  sport.  But  any  fishing 
is  better  than  no  fishing;  and  when  we  remember 
that  our  fishing-days  are  growing  fewer  as  the  path 
behind  us  grows  longer,  it  behooves  us  to  make  the 
most  of  those  that  are  left  us.  Furthermore,  it  may 
be  said  in  favor  of  this  fishing  that  in  one  respect 
it  excels  all  others  —  that  is,  in  the  proportion 
which  the  pleasure  of  getting  ready  for  it  bears  to 
the  actual  sport.  Though  there  are  no  flies  to  be 
artistically  tied,  nor  fine  rods  to  be  inspected,  nor 
reels  to  be  oiled,  the  simple  tackle  must  be  over- 
hauled and  made  ready  in  its  way,  and  proper  hooks 
and  lines  provided.  If  one  is  to  try  for  pickerel 


ON  A  GLASS  ROOF  125 

through  the  ice,  he  must  make  his  "jacks,"  or 
"tilt-ups,"  and  have  them  so  nicely  balanced  that 
they  will  give  no  sign  of  the  struggles  of  the  live 
bait,  yet  rise  at  the  first  touch  of  "Long  Face's" 
jaws.  Over  all  these  preparations  one  will  have  a 
good  time  with  himself  and  his  thoughts,  whether 
or  not  he,  at  last,  gets  any  result  from  his  pleasant 
labors.  One  must  have  the  provident  forethought 
to  dig  his  worms  in  the  fall  and  store  them  in  his 
cellar  if  he  intends  to  go  perch-fishing  in  winter, 
and  to  catch  his  minnows  while  the  brooks  are 
open,  and  keep  and  feed  them  in  a  water-trough  or 
spring-hole  till  the  winter  day  that  he  takes  them 
pickerel-fishing.  One  needs  not  to  go  far  for  the  bait 
for  smelt  and  herring,  for  the  pork-barrel  furnishes 
that  till  the  first  fish  of  each  kind  is  caught,  when 
an  eye  or  undercut  of  the  tail  of  the  smelt  and  a 
bit  of  the  chin  of  the  herring  are  used  to  lure  their 
brethren  to  the  upper  world,  where  death  and  the 
frying-pan  await  them. 

I  do  not  know  how  many  times  I  had  promised 
to  take  myself  a-fishing  the  next  winter  and  had 
made  some  preparation  toward  fulfilling  the  prom- 
ise. More  than  once  I  had  dug  a  quart  of  worms 
in  the  latest  pleasant,  unfrozen  days  of  fall,  and 
put  them  in  a  big  box  of  earth  in  the  cellar;  but 
among  all  the  short  days  of  many  a  long  winter 
the  day  wherein  to  go  fishing  had  never  come,  and 
in  spring  the  worms,  their  destiny  unfulfilled,  were 


126  ON  A  GLASS  ROOF 

set  free,  to  bore  to  the  core  of  the  world  if  they 
chose.  I  had  once  laid  in  a  stock  of  minnows, 
caught  with  mutual  pains,  of  which  the  only  good 
I  got  in  winter  was  in  watching  and  feeding  them, 
and  by  June,  when  I  might  have  used  them  for 
bass-bait,  such  friendly  relations  had  grown  up 
between  us  that  I  could  not  find  it  in  my  heart 
to  treat  them  so  cruelly,  and  so  turned  them  out 
in  the  nearest  stream  for  Nature  to  deal  with  as 
she  would  —  let  them  grow  to  the  utmost  of  min- 
nowhood,  or  feed  them  to  her  big  fish,  or  let  them 
be  twitched  out  by  the  pin-hooks  of  her  boys.  It 
was  a  tough  tender-heartedness,  I  confess  —  like 
turning  adrift  a  kitten  one  dislikes  to  kill. 

So  winter  after  winter  had  come  and  melted 
away,  adding  nothing  to  my  experience,  but  a  little 
to  my  knowledge  of  winter  fishing,  got  verbally 
from  old  fishermen,  and,  with  that,  strength  to  my 
determination  that  I  would  some  time  go.  At  last 
the  day  came,  a  March  day,  with  a  promise  of 
spring  in  the  soft  sky  that  endomed  the  winter 
landscape,  when  I  found  myself  fairly  started,  well 
outfitted  with  an  ice-slick  for  cutting  holes,  worms 
for  perch,  fat  pork  for  smelt  and  herring,  and  tackle 
for  all  three. 

The  air  was  sharp  and  frosty,  though  the  sun 
had  got  a  good  hour  above  the  Green  Mountains, 
—  white  enough  now,  —  and  there  was  a  firm 
crust  that  would  bear,  which  makes  the  best  of 


ON  A  GLASS  ROOF  127 

walking,  as  a  crust  that  will  not  bear  makes  the 
worst.  On  such  good  footing,  with  all  my  outfit 
pocketable  but  the  ice-slick,  and  that  almost  as 
good  shoulder-ballast  as  a  gun,  I  got  on  so  speedily 
that  I  was  soon  on  the  "Crik,"  a  broad  and  level 
roadway  to  the  lake.  At  the  last  turn  of  this  I 
found  a  couple  of  men  fishing  for  pickerel,  and 
stopped  for  a  little  chat  with  them  and  to  see  what 
sport  they  were  having.  Our  conversation  was 
mostly  carried  on  at  long  range,  fired  back  and 
forth  across  the  ice  —  for  they  had  a  line  of  holes 
cut  two  rods  or  so  apart  for  fifty  rods  along  the 
channel,  and  the  jack  set  at  the  farthest  hole  was 
as  likely  as  any  to  point  skyward  and  start  them 
racing  to  it.  Then  I,  at  the  farthest  upstream  hole, 
would  watch  them  as  they  reached  the  jack, 
snatched  it  up,  and  quickly  overhauled  the  line, 
pulling  out  sometimes  a  pickerel,  sometimes  a 
naked  hook  which  the  pickerel  had  got  the  better 
of  and  robbed  of  its  minnow.  They  would  shout 
back  the  tidings  of  their  luck  if  good,  or  roll  it  back 
in  a  growl  if  bad,  and  then  come  leisurely  toward 
me  till  another  jack  arose  to  beckon  them  more 
swiftly  forward. 

As  I  stooped  to  examine  the  fashion  of  a  jack, 
the  tip  of  it  flew  up  and  nearly  bumped  my  nose, 
resenting  which  I  laid  hold  of  it  and  caught  a  three- 
pound  pickerel,  or  rather  the  hook  caught  him, 
and  I  only  pulled  him  out  onto  the  drier  side  of  the 


128  ON  A  GLASS  ROOF 

ice,  for  the  hook  and  line  and  jack  and  the  tor- 
tured minnow  do  most  of  the  fishing.  The  angler 
only  baits  the  hooks  and  sets  them  to  fishing,  while 
he  watches  them  and  pulls  out  their  catch. 

These  jacks  are  two  slender  pieces  of  wood, 
about  fifteen  inches  long,  turning  on  each  other 
on  a  pivot  at  the  middle.  When  in  use  the  ends  of 
the  under  piece  rest  upon  the  ice  on  either  side  of 
the  hole.  The  upper  stick,  now  at  right  angles 
with  the  under,  has  its  heavier  end  also  resting  on 
the  ice,  while  the  lighter  end  holds  the  ten-  or 
fifteen-foot  line,  a  slight  pull  on  which  raises  the 
butt  of  the  upper  stick  and  signals  the  alert  fisher- 
man to  it. 

Wishing  my  short-time  friends  good  luck,  I  left 
them  racing  with  their  fish  and  went  my  way. 
Theirs  could  not  be  called  a  high  order  of  sport, 
but  it  is  good  fun  wherewith  to  stir  the  dullness  of 
winter,  for  one  cannot  help  getting  excited  in  the 
game  if  the  fish  are  biting  freely  and  three  or  four 
jacks  are  up  at  once.  It  is  better  than  toasting 
one's  shins  at  the  fire  on  such  a  day  as  this. 

Presently  I  was  out  upon  the  broad  bay  of  the 
lake  which  the  old  French  explorers  named  the  "Bay 
of  the  Vessels,"  whether  for  their  own  craft,  the 
birch  boats  of  the  Indians,  or  the  vessels  of  pottery 
found  here,  many  fragments  of  which  the  lake 
even  now  tosses  ashore  or  exhumes  from  the  banks. 
If  in  either  way  it  would  give  me  one  perfect  sue- 


ON  A  GLASS  ROOF  129 

cotash-pot  just  as  it  came  from  the  hand  of  the 
Waubanakee  squaw  that  fashioned  it,  or  with  the 
smutch  of  camp-fire  smoke  upon  it,  I  should  prize 
it  above  all  the  old  china  in  the  world.  But  I  was 
born  too  late  for  such  a  gift,  and  get  only  shards. 

As  I  skirted  the  rugged,  silent  shore,  walking 
where  last  summer  I  boated,  there  were  traces 
enough  of  the  fierce  fight  that  had  raged  before  the 
cold  subdued  the  lake  and  got  it  safe  under  hatches. 
All  the  nearest  rocks  and  trees  were  mantled  with 
ice,  the  spray  of  the  last  waves  hurled  ashore  by 
the  north  wind,  and  twenty  rods  lakeward  was  a 
line  of  broken  cakes,  frozen  into  a  jagged  barricade, 
where  the  open  water  made  its  last  stand.  All 's 
quiet  now  along  Petowbowk,  and  King  Frost 
reigns  supreme  and  majestic.  But  the  captive 
begins  to  groan  as  the  sun,  his  deliverer,  climbs 
upward  and  northward.  Two  months  hence  he  will 
be  playing  tyrant  in  his  turn,  buffeting  craft,  water- 
fowl, and  shores. 

Beyond  the  first  grim  headland  that  clasps  the 
bay,  I  saw  some  steadfast,  upright  specks,  which 
I  took  to  be  fishermen,  and,  having  faith  that  they 
knew  better  than  I  where  to  fish,  made  my  way 
toward  them.  Coming  nearer,  some  of  the  specks 
proved  to  be  men,  while  other  bigger  ones  turned 
out  to  be  young  evergreen  trees  set  in  the  ice  — 
better  than  the  men,  likely  enough,  if  they  had 
been  left  growing,  but  now  only  brush-heaps  to 


ISO  ON  A  GLASS  ROOF 

break  the  wind  off  the  smaller  specks.  An  ignoble 
use,  I  thought,  to  put  a  lusty  young  tree  to  for  so 
short  a  time,  presently  to  go  drif  ting  about  the  lake, 
doing  no  good  to  even  so  much  as  the  eye  of  man. 
How  much  it  might  have  done  if  the  axe  had  spared 
it  for  a  hundred  years !  Oh,  these  cursed  hackers 
and  hewers  of  trees!  Will  they  never  stay  their 
hands  from  destroying  the  beauty  and  goodness  of 
the  earth? 

Every  hole  already  had  its  man,  if  not  its  bush, 
and  I  had  to  cut  one  for  myself:  so,  slipping  the 
thong  of  the  slick  over  my  wrist,  I  began  chiseling, 
like  a  woodpecker  mortising  a  tree  for  his  grub, 
only  I  was  boring  haphazard,  while  his  feathered 
ear  or  horny  nose  leads  him  straight  to  his  prey. 
I  cannot  hear  a  fish  swim,  nor  smell  one  till  he  is 
above  water  or  in  the  frying-pan.  But  as  a  grub 
might  be  anywhere  in  the  wood,  so  might  a  fish 
be  anywhere  in  the  water.  I  began  to  wonder  how 
many  bushels  of  crystals  one  must  hew  to  come  to 
the  water  of  Petowbowk  at  this  season ;  but  at  last  I 
struck  through  to  it,  and  it  came  to  meet  me  faster 
than  I  wished,  before  I  got  the  bottom  of  the  hole 
big  enough  to  let  through  the  biggest  fish  I  in- 
tended to  catch. 

Then  I  put  a  worm  on  my  hook  and  dropped  it 
through  the  scuttle  I  had  made  in  the  glass  roof  of 
the  house  of  the  fishes,  and  invited  them  up  to  take 
a  look  at  the  sky  which  they  had  not  seen  for  so 


ON  A  GLASS  ROOF  131 

many  weeks.  Sunbeams,  moonlight,  and  rays  of 
stars  had  come  to  them  but  dimly  and  distorted 
in  their  recent  quiet  life;  but  they  seemed  satisfied 
with  it,  undisturbed  by  the  tumult  of  winter  storms 
and  buffeting  of  waves,  and  had  no  desire  to  see 
anything  of  the  world  aboveboard. 

For  an  hour  I  had  such  exciting  sport  as  fishing 
in  the  well  or  cistern  at  home  would  have  afforded, 
for  not  a  bite  did  I  get.  It  made  it  none  the  pleas- 
anter  to  see  my  neighbors  hauling  out  both  perch 
and  smelt,  while  my  bait  —  tempting  enough  for 
the  best  of  them,  I  thought  —  dangled  untouched, 
if  not  unnoticed,  by  even  the  least  minnow.  I 
began  to  imagine  my  luckier  or  more  skillf  ul  neigh- 
bors the  fishermen  laughing  at  me,  if  they  were 
not  too  busy  with  their  own  affairs,  and  doubted 
not  that  my  nearer  neighbors  of  the  nether  world 
were  on  the  broad  grin,  peering  up  at  me. 

"How  many  miles  has  he  come  just  to  show 
himself  to  us?  And  not  much  to  look  at  at  that, 
for  he  is  not  handsome,  neither  is  he  terrible,  like 
the  Canucks  who  are  making  such  havoc  among 
our  friends  over  there.  Does  he  look  rather  green? 
Or  is  it  only  that  we  see  him  through  this  emerald 
water?" 

Some  such  whispers,  I  fancied,  came  from  below. 
I  made  my  line  fast  to  a  stick  laid  across  the  hole, 
and  went  visiting,  for  lack  of  something  better  to 
do,  which  is  a  winter  custom  in  these  parts. 


132  ON  A  GLASS  ROOF 

I  called  first  on  the  nearest  fisherman,  an  ancient 
Canuck,  so  old,  I  thought,  that,  being  of  no  use  at 
home,  his  grown-up  great-grandchildren  had  sent 
him  fishing.  Here  he  was  valuable,  for  he  had 
the  gift  of  his  race,  and  two  or  three  dozen  lusty 
perch  were  lying  on  the  ice  about  him.  He  kept  his 
short  black  pipe  continually  hi  blast  when  not  re- 
charging it,  smoking  home-grown,  greenish-black 
tobacco  twisted  into  a  half-inch  rope  which  must 
have  been  endless,  and  so  rank  that  I  thought  the 
friends  of  his  youth  in  Canada  might  have  their 
memories  of  him  refreshed  with  a  sniff  of  it,  now 
that  the  south  wind  was  blowing.  As  he  knew  as 
little  English  as  I  French,  we  had  no  very  sociable 
intercourse,  and  it  soon  grew  rather  dull  for  both 
of  us.  So  after  a  short  tarry  I  moved  on  to  the  next 
hole,  held  by  a  younger  Canadian.  He  had  con- 
quered the  Queen's  English,  which  if  he  did  not 
murder  outright  he  treated  barbarously.  He  was 
also  a  conqueror  of  fish,  and  many  of  his  victims 
lay  about  him,  dead  and  dying,  —  perch  in  mail  of 
iron  and  gold,  smelt  sheathed  in  silver,  and  herring 
in  mother-of-pearl  armor  of  all  nacreous  hues  and 
tints. 

"You  don'  ketch  no  feesh,  ain't  it?"  he  cried, 
with  a  grin.  "Wai,  da's  too  bad.  Ah'm  sorry,  me." 
I  doubted  his  sorrowing  much  for  this,  for  these 
Canucks  think  all  the  fish  and  all  the  berries  belong 
to  them. 


ON  A  GLASS  ROOF  133 

"Hah!  Dis  pooty  col',"  he  said,  beating  his 
breast  with  his  red  hands.  "'F  Ah  feesh  here 
mauch,  Ah  have  haouse.  But  prob'ly  Ah  won't, 
prob'ly  Ah  will." 

He  told  me  that  wherever  on  the  lake  his  breth- 
ren make  a  business  of  whiter  fishing  it  is  done 
mostly  in  little  board  huts,  which  are  moved  out 
upon  the  ice  when  it  has  fairly  made  for  the  season, 
and  hauled  ashore  before  the  spring  break-up. 
In  these  little  houses  the  fisherman  spends  his  days 
and  nights,  for  they  are  very  comfortable,  being 
banked  with  snow  and  furnished  with  a  stove  and 
bunk.  A  movable  floor-board  gives  access  to  the 
fishing-hole  beneath.  This  is  the  hatchway  to  a 
noble  common  cellar,  reaching  from  Wood  Creek 
to  the  Richelieu  in  length,  and  in  width  from  Ver- 
mont to  New  York  State,  stored  with  plenty  of 
food  and  drink  of  the  wholesomest.  It  must  be  a 
cozy  way  of  fishing,  and,  I  thought,  would  suit  me; 
for  if,  as  it  seemed,  I  was  to  get  no  fish,  I  might  take 
my  bad  luck  comfortably  and  shut  out  from  prying 
eyes  —  keep  it  unknown  to  any  but  myself  and  the 
fish.  My  new  acquaintance  told  me  much  of  his 
affairs,  of  his  luck  in  fishing  at  all  seasons,  of  the 
money  he  had  earned  in  haying  and  in  chopping, 
and  bragged  of  his  wonderful  horse: 

"He  worse  more  as  hundred  dollar.  'F  you 
want  heem  go  slow,  he  go  slow '  'F  you  want  heem 
go  fas',  jus'  de  same!  Yas,  sir." 


134  ON  A  GLASS  ROOF 

Of  our  withered  neighbor  he  said:  "He  got  too 
hole.  Wen  Ah  got  hole  lak  heem,  Ah  been  dead 
great  many  year'  'go!" 

He  used  the  shortest  rod  I  ever  saw  employed, 
it  being  only  about  a  foot  in  length,  with  a  slender 
cross-piece  more  than  half  as  long,  to  wind  up  the 
line  upon  when  not  in  use.  When  he  had  hooked  a 
fish  he  tossed  this  aside  and  pulled  it  out  hand  over 
hand.  He  said  that,  besides  perch,  smelt,  and  blue- 
fish,  they  occasionally  caught  a  pike-perch,  a  little 
rock-pike,  and  "de  mudder  of  de  eel,"  as  he  called 
the  ling  and  believed  it  to  be.  If  this  theory  will 
help  settle  the  vexed  question  of  the  generation  of 
the  eel,  the  scientists  are  welcome  to  it,  if  they  will 
only  give  credit  therefor  to  my  friend  Joseph 
Gerard,  of  Vermont,  commonly  known  as  Joe 
Gero. 

The  perch  and  smelt  swim  deep  for  the  most 
part,  and  are  usually  fished  for  a  little  off  the 
bottom.  Worms  are  the  best  bait  for  perch;  but 
after  one  smelt  is  caught  his  eyes  are  used  to  lure 
his  fellows.  It  is  said  that  these  Champlain  smelt 
do  not  visit  salt  water,  though  they  might  if  they 
would;  but  they  have  the  cucumber  smell  and 
taste  of  those  taken  in  tide-waters.  The  salmon 
herring,  lake  herring,  or  whatever  he  is  who  here 
bears  the  name  of  "bluefish,"  is  a  recent  comer  to 
these  waters;  for,  from  all  I  can  learn,  he  was  un- 
known here  till  within  ten  or  twelve  years.  No  one 


ON  A  GLASS  ROOF  135 

can  deny  that  he  is  a  very  handsome  fish,  symmet- 
rical in  form,  and,  when  first  taken  from  the  water, 
of  beautiful  mother-of-pearl  hues;  but  as  to  his 
goodness  opinions  differ.  The  flesh  is  rather  soft, 
and  has  its  share  of  bones,  but  is  of  rich  flavor. 
When  he  bites  he  comes  close  to  the  surface  for  the 
morsel  of  fat  pork  or  bit  of  his  brother's  belly  that 
is  offered  him,  with  a  constant,  gentle  motion. 
When  he  is  seen  to  take  the  bait,  the  angler  strikes 
at  once,  or  it  is  spit  out.  He  is  very  shy,  perhaps 
through  being  a  stranger  in  strange  waters,  and 
will  fly  from  the  fisherman's  shadow  or  sudden 
motion. 

The  ideal  angler  has  quiet  ways;  and,  observing 
that  my  third  and  last  fellow-fisherman  —  if  I 
had  a  right  to  claim  such  fellowship  —  kept  to  his 
post  as  steadfastly  as  an  Esquimaux  to  a  seal-hole, 
never  wasting  a  motion,  I  was  attracted  to  him. 
He  proved  to  be  a  Waubanakee  of  Saint  Francis, 
plying  the  gentle  art  here  in  the  warpath  of  his 
ancestors.  One  fishing  here  two  hundred  years 
ago  would  have  needed  to  keep  at  least  one  eye 
open  for  something  more  than  fish,  but  both  his 
little  black  ones  were  intent  upon  his  line.  From 
our  low  standpoint  the  rough,  indented  shore  of 
Split  Rock  Mountain  showed  only  as  a  straight 
ice-line,  and  it  seemed  as  if  a  war  party  might  slip 
by,  unseen,  behind  the  round  of  the  world.  Over 
there  passed  many  a  one,  to  and  fro,  in  the  old  days 


136  ON  A  GLASS  ROOF 

—  Iroquois,  Waubanakees,  and  whites;  notable 
among  them,  with  a  bloody  page  in  history,  that  of 
De  Sainte-Helene  and  De  Mantet,  French  and 
Indians,  creeping  like  panthers  toward  doomed 
Schenectady,  then  returning,  gorged  with  blood 
and  pillage. 

This  tamed  great-grandson  of  those  panthers 
looked  peaceable  and  kindly  enough,  but  was  at 
first  as  taciturn  as  his  ancestors  could  have  been, 
and  as  slow  to  be  drawn  into  conversation  as  the 
fish  to  the  companionship  which  I  desired  of  them; 
but,  baiting  with  tobacco  and  lunch,  I  at  last  drew 
some  talk  from  him.  He  told  me  that  he  and  a  few 
of  his  people  were  wintering  in  a  neighboring  vil- 
lage, making  baskets  and  bows  and  arrows.  They 
found  but  little  sale  for  these,  and,  for  want  of 
something  better  to  do,  he  had  come  a-fishing. 
Years  before  I  had  known  some  of  his  people,  and 
through  him  I  learned  somewhat  of  my  old  ac- 
quaintances. One  of  them  was  Swasin  Tahmont, 
who  I  doubt  not  was  the  Tahmunt  Swasen  of 
Thoreau's  "Maine  Woods."  I  was  surprised  to 
hear  that  he  had  gone  to  the  happy  hunting- 
grounds  by  the  fire-water  way,  for  when  I  knew 
him  he  would  not  touch  whiskey  and  was  very 
pious.  He  used  to  sing  hymns  to  me  in  Waubana- 
kee,  and  always  said  grace  before  his  musquash- 
meat.  Wadso,  who  many  years  ago  had  told  me 
the  Indian  names  of  all  these  streams,  had  also 


ON  A  GLASS  ROOF  137 

gone  thither,  but  by  a  better  path.  His  father 
still  lives,  the  oldest  man  of  his  tribe.  He  com- 
manded the  Waubanakee  warriors  at  the  battle 
of  Plattsburg.  My  new  acquaintance  had  fleshed 
his  war-arrows,  having  served  in  a  New  York  regi- 
ment in  the  Civil  War,  and  he  looked  as  if  he  might 
have  done  good  service.  I  wondered  if  then  any 
of  the  old  savagery  had  been  awakened  hi  him  —  if 
the  war-whoop  had  risen  to  his  lips  when  his  regi- 
ment charged,  or  if  he  had  been  tempted  to  scalp  a 
fallen  foe.  I  heard  of  a  Caughnawaga  in  one  of 
our  Vermont  regiments  who,  when  reproached  for 
kicking  a  wounded  rebel,  justified  himself  by  say- 
ing, "Me  'list,  to  kill  um!"  That  was  setting  forth 
the  truth  with  unpleasant  plainness. 

The  ice  was  now  whooping  like  a  legion  of  In- 
dians. Its  wild,  mysterious  voice  would  first  be 
heard  faint  and  far  away,  then  come  rushing  to- 
ward us  swifter  than  the  wind,  with  increasing 
volume  of  groans  and  yells,  till  it  seemed  as  if  the 
ice  was  about  to  yawn  beneath  us  and  devour  us. 
The  fish  quit  biting  —  as  well  they  might,  with  a 
pother  overhead  enough  to  frighten  a  hungry  saint 
from  his  meals.  If  I  had  been  alone  I  should  have 
fled  to  the  shore;  but,  seeing  my  companion  un- 
disturbed by  the  uproar,  I  tried  to  feel  at  ease. 
When  I  asked  him  what  made  this  noise,  he  simply 
answered,  "The  ice."  That  was  reason  enough 
for  him,  and  he  evidently  thought  it  should  satisfy 


138  ON  A  GLASS  ROOF 

me.  I  asked  him  if  his  people  had  any  legend 
connected  with  it,  and  he  answered,  with  a  quiet 
laugh,  "I've  heard  some  stories  'bout  it,  but  I 
guess  they  wa'n't  very  true." 

After  some  coaxing,  he  told  me  this:  "You  know 
that  big  rock  in  the  lake  off  north  —  Rock  Dunder, 
you  call  it?  Wai,  our  people  use  to  call  that  Woja- 
hose  —  that  means  'the  forbidder'  —  'cause  every 
time  our  people  pass  by  it  in  their  canoes,  if  they 
did  n't  throw  some  tobacco  or  corn  or  something 
to  it,  the  big  devil  that  live  in  it  would  n't  let  'em 
go  far  without  a  big  storm  come,  and  maybe 
drowned  'em.  He  forbid  'em.  Wai,  bimeby  they 
got  sick  of  it  —  s'pose  maybe  they  did  n't  always 
have  much  corn  an'  tobacco  to  throw  'way  so  — 
and  the  priests  all  pray  their  god  to  make  Woja- 
hose  keep  still  an'  not  trouble  'em.  After  they 
prayed  a  long  time,  he  promised  'em  he'd  keep 
Wojahose  from  hurtin'  on  'em  for  a  spell  every 
year.  So  he  froze  the  lake  all  over  tight  every 
winter  for  two  or  three  months,  and  then  our 
people  could  go  off  huntin'  and  fightin'  all  over  the 
lake  without  payin*  Wojahose.  That  made  him 
mad,  an'  every  little  while  he  'd  go  roarin'  round 
under  the  ice,  tryin'  to  git  out.  But  he  could  n't 
do  much  hurt,  only  once  in  a  while  git  a  man 
through  a  hole  in  the  ice.  That's  the  way  I've 
heard  some  of  our  old  men  tell  it;  but  I  guess  it 's  a 
story." 


ON  A  GLASS  ROOF  139 

Wojahose  has  taken  more  to  French  customs  of 
late  years,  and  feeds  now  mostly  upon  horses. 
Not  a  winter  passes  that  he  does  not  swallow  a 
score  or  so. 

The  south  wind  was  blowing  softly,  and  a  veil  of 
summer-like  haze  had  fallen  over  the  rugged  steeps 
of  Split  Rock  Mountain.  At  its  northern  point, 
which  gives  it  its  name,  the  sleeping  lighthouse 
loomed  ghostly  through  it,  awaiting  the  spring 
evening  when  it  should  again  awaken  and  cast  the 
glitter  of  its  eye  across  the  released  waters.  From 
behind  this  promontory  suddenly  flashed  the  sail 
of  an  ice-boat,  swifter  than  a  puff  of  wind-blown 
smoke,  a  phantom  flying  faster  than  feathered 
wings  could  bear  it,  and  out  of  sight  behind 
Thompson's  Point  almost  as  soon  as  we  had 
seen  it. 

The  mellow  baying  of  a  distant  hound  came  to 
us,  and  presently  we  saw  the  fox  creeping  out  from 
a  headland,  picking  his  way  along  the  streaks  of 
glare  ice  till  he  had  got  a  half-mile  from  shore, 
when  he  put  his  best  foot  foremost  and  headed  for 
the  eastern  border  of  the  bay  at  full  speed.  When 
the  hound  came  to  the  scentless  ice  he  gave  a  long 
howl  of  disappointment,  then  circled  and  snuffed 
in  vain,  and  at  last  went  ashore,  stopping  now  and 
then  to  cast  a  wistful  glance  behind  him. 

The  day  was  on  the  wane,  and  home  at  the  other 
end  of  a  long  walk.  I  pulled  in  and  wound  up  my 


140  ON  A  GLASS  ROOF 

guiltless  line,  dropping  the  untouched  bait  to  the 
fish  or  Wojahose,  and  took  the  homeward  way 
along  the  shore  for  a  mile,  and  then  up  the  Little 
River  of  Otters,  for  hundreds  of  years,  as  now,  the 
road  of  men,  fowl,  and  fish.  From  it  the  pickerel- 
fishers  had  departed,  and  the  only  tokens  of  their 
recent  occupancy  were  the  deserted  holes,  with 
here  and  there  beside  one  a  mangled  minnow,  a  few 
pickerel-scales,  half -burned  matches,  and  the  ashes 
of  pipes.  The  deadness  of  winter  brooded  over  the 
lonely  icebound  stream,  and  the  only  sound  that 
broke  the  stillness  besides  the  crunching  of  my 
footsteps  was  the  storm-foreboding  hoot  of  a  great 
horned  owl. 

I  had  almost  forgotten  to  say  that  I  bore  home  a 
goodly  string  of  fish,  and,  as  no  questions  were 
asked,  I  got  the  credit  of  catching  them.  Indeed, 
after  a  few  days,  it  almost  seemed  to  me  that  I  had 
caught  them. 


MERINO  SHEEP 

THE  writer  of  a  recently  printed  book  concerning 
Americans  of  royal  descent,  and  all  such  Americans 
as  come  near  to  being  so  graciously  favored,  has 
neglected  to  mention  certain  Americans  who  are 
descended  from  the  pets  of  the  proudest  kings  and 
nobles  of  the  Old  World.  For  there  is  such  a  family 
here  —  one  so  large  that  it  greatly  outnumbers  all 
American  descendants  of  European  royal  lines, 
excepting  perhaps  those  of  the  Green  Isle,  almost 
as  prolific  of  kings  as  of  Democrats.  They  carry 
their  finely  clothed,  blue-blooded  bodies  on  four 
legs,  for  they  are  the  famous  American  Merino 
sheep. 

The  Merino  sheep  originated  in  Spain,  probably 
two  thousand  years  ago,  from  a  cross  of  African 
rams  with  the  native  ewes,  and  in  course  of  time 
became  established  as  a  distinct  breed,  with  such 
marked  characteristics  as  to  differentiate  them 
from  all  other  breeds  in  the  world. 

Different  provinces  had  their  different  strains 
of  Merinos,  which  were  like  strawberries  in  that, 
though  all  were  good,  some  were  better  than  others. 
There  were  also  two  great  divisions  —  the  Trans- 
humantes  or  traveling  flocks,  and  the  Estantes 
or  stationary  flocks.  The  Transhumantes  were 


142  MERINO  SHEEP 

considered  the  best,  as  they  had  a  right  to  be;  for 
their  owners  were  kings,  nobles,  and  rich  priests, 
and  they  had  the  pick  of  the  fatness  of  the  whole 
land,  being  pastured  on  the  southern  plains  in 
winter,  and  in  the  spring  and  summer  on  the  then 
fresher  herbage  of  the  mountains  to  the  northward, 
from  which  they  returned  in  the  fall.  For  the  ac- 
commodation of  these  four  or  five  millions  during 
their  migrations,  cultivators  of  the  intervening 
land  were  obliged  to  leave  a  road,  not  less  than 
ninety  yards  wide,  as  well  as  commons  for  the  feed- 
ing of  these  flocks  —  a  grievous  burden  to  the  hus- 
bandman, and  for  which  there  was  little  or  no 
redress.  A  French  writer  says:  "It  was  seldom 
that  proprietors  of  land  made  demands  when  they 
sustained  damage,  thinking  it  better  to  suffer  than 
to  contest,  when  they  were  assured  that  the  ex- 
pense would  greatly  exceed  any  compensation  they 
might  recover."  A  Spanish  writer  complains  in  a 
memoir  addressed  to  his  king,  that  "  the  corps  of 
junadines  (the  proprietors  of  flocks)  enjoy  an  enor- 
mous power,  and  have  not  only  engrossed  all  the 
pastures  of  the  kingdom,  but  have  made  cultiva- 
tors abandon  their  most  fertile  lands;  thus  they 
have  banished  the  estantes,  ruined  agriculture,  and 
depopulated  the  country."  The  Transhumantes 
were  in  flocks  of  ten  thousand,  cared  for  by  fifty 
shepherds,  each  with  a  dog,  and  under  the  direc- 
tion of  a  chief.  Those  who  wish  to  learn  more 


MERINO  SHEEP  143 

of  the  management  of  these  flocks  and  the  life 
of  their  guardians  are  referred  to  the  interest- 
ing essay  on  "Sheep,"  by  Robert  R.  Livingston, 
printed  by  order  of  the  Legislature  of  New  York 
in  1810. 

Of  the  traveling  sheep  were  the  strains  known  as 
Escurials,  Guadalupes,  Paulars,  Infantados,  Ne- 
grettis,  and  others,  all  esteemed  for  various  quali- 
ties, and  some  of  whose  names  have  become  famil- 
iar to  American  ears.  The  stationary  flocks  appear 
to  have  passed  away,  or  at  least  to  have  gained  no 
renown. 

The  Spanish  sheep  reached  their  highest  ex- 
cellence about  the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth 
century;  but  during  the  Peninsular  War  the  best 
flocks  were  destroyed  or  neglected,  and  the  race 
so  deteriorated  that  in  1851  a  Vermont  breeder 
of  Merinos,  who  went  to  Spain  on  purpose  to  see 
the  sheep  of  that  country,  wrote  that  he  did  not 
see  a  sheep  there  for  which  he  would  pay  freight  to 
America,  and  did  not  believe  they  had  any  of  pure 
blood!  But  Merinos  of  pure  blood  had  been 
brought  into  France  in  the  last  quarter  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  and  there  carefully  and  judi- 
ciously bred.  In  Saxony  they  were  carefully  but 
injudiciously  bred,  everything  being  sacrificed  to 
fineness  of  fleece. 

Less  than  one  hundred  years  ago  the  sheep  of 
the  United  States  were  the  descendants  of  the 


144  MERINO  SHEEP 

English  breeds,  mixed  and  intermixed  till  they  had 
lost  the  distinctive  characteristics  of  their  long- 
wooled,  well-fleshed  ancestors,  and  were  known  as 
"natives"  (a  name  they  were  as  much  entitled  to 
as  their  owners),  being  born  here  of  parents  who 
had  not  slept  or  grazed  under  other  skies.  For 
many  generations  having  little  care,  their  best 
shelter  hi  winter  being  the  stacks  their  poor  fodder 
was  tossed  from,  and  their  fare  in  summer  the 
scant  grass  among  the  stumps  of  the  clearings  and 
the  shaded  herbage  of  the  woods,  by  the  survival  of 
the  fittest  they  came  to  be  a  hardy  race,  almost  as 
wild  as  deer,  and  almost  as  well  fitted  to  withstand 
the  rigors  of  our  climate  and  to  elude  capture  by 
wild  beasts  or  their  rightful  owners.  Indeed,  so 
much  had  they  recovered  the  habits  of  their  re- 
motest ancestors,  that  to  get  up  the  settler's  flock 
for  washing  or  shearing,  or  the  draft  of  a  number 
for  slaughter  or  sale,  was  at  least  a  half-day's  task, 
if  not  one  uncertain  of  fulfillment.  All  the  farm- 
hands, and  often  the  women  and  children  of  the 
household,  were  mustered  for  these  herdings,  and 
likely  enough  the  neighbors  had  to  be  called  in  to 
help.  The  flocks  were  generally  small,  and  the 
coarse,  thin,  short  wool  was  mostly  worked  upon 
the  now  bygone  hand-cards,  spinning-wheels, 
and  hand-looms  for  home  use.  As  the  clearings 
widened,  the  flocks  of  sheep  grew  larger,  and  wool- 
growing  for  market  became  an  industry  of  some 


MERINO  SHEEP  145 

importance.  The  character  of  the  animals  and 
the  quality  of  their  fleeces  remained  almost  un- 
changed until  the  century  was  a  half -score  years 
old,  when  the  Merinos  had  become  established 
here,  and  the  effect  of  their  cross  with  the  natives 
began  to  be  manifest. 

Perhaps  mention  should  be  made  here  of  the 
Smith's  Island  sheep,  of  unknown  origin,  but 
peculiar  to  the  island  from  which  they  took  their 
name,  which  lies  off  the  coast  of  Virginia,  and  be- 
longed, about  1810,  to  Mr.  Custis,  Washington's 
stepson,  who  wrote  a  pamphlet  concerning  them, 
in  which  he  says :  "Then*  wool  is  a  great  deal  longer 
than  the  Spanish,  in  quality  vastly  superior;  the 
size  and  figure  of  the  animal  admit  of  no  com- 
parison, being  highly  in  favor  of  the  Smith's 
Island." 

Livingston  does  not  endorse  these  claims,  but 
says  of  the  wool:  "It  is  soft,  white,  and  silky,  but 
neither  so  fine  nor  so  soft  as  the  Merino  wool."  If 
this  breed  is  not  extinct,  it  never  gained  much 
renown,  nor  noticeably  spread  beyond  its  island 
borders.  I  think  Randall  does  not  mention  it  in 
his  "Practical  Shepherd."  There  were  also  the 
Otter  sheep,  said  to  have  originated  on  some  island 
on  our  eastern  coast,  and  whose  distinguishing 
peculiarity  was  such  extreme  shortness  of  legs  that 
Livingston  says  they  could  not  run  or  jump,  and 
they  even  walked  with  some  difficulty.  And  there 


146  MERINO  SHEEP 

were  the  Arlington  sheep,  derived  from  stock  im- 
ported by  Washington,  the  male  a  Persian  ram, 
the  mothers  Bakewell  ewes.  They  seem  to  have 
been  a  valuable  breed  of  long-wooled  sheep,  but 
are  now  unknown. 

The  first  importation  of  Merino  sheep  on  record 
is  that  of  William  Foster,  of  Boston,  who  in  1793 
brought  over  three  from  Spain  and  gave  them  to  a 
friend,  who  had  them  killed  for  mutton,  and,  if  the 
sheep  were  fat,  I  doubt  not  found  it  good,  and 
wished  there  was  more  of  it.  In  1801  four  ram 
lambs  were  sent  to  the  United  States  by  two 
French  gentlemen.  The  only  one  that  survived 
the  passage  was  owned  for  several  years  in  New 
York,  and  afterward  founded  some  excellent  grade 
flocks  in  Delaware.  Randall  says  of  him:  "He  was 
of  fine  form,  weighed  one  hundred  and  thirty-eight 
pounds,  and  yielded  eight  and  a  hah*  pounds  of 
brook-washed  wool,  the  heaviest  fleece  borne  by 
any  of  the  early  imported  Merinos  of  which  I  have 
seen  any  account." 

What  was  then  considered  fine  form  would 
hardly  take  that  place  with  our  modern  breeders, 
and  the  then  remarkable  weight  of  wool  was  not 
more  than  a  quarter  that  of  the  fleece  of  many  of 
the  present  Americans  of  the  race;  these  last,  how- 
ever, not  brook- washed  nor  even  rain- washed.  The 
next  year  Mr.  Livingston,  our  Minister  to  France, 
sent  home  two  pairs  of  Merinos  from  the  Govern- 


MERINO  SHEEP 

ment  flock  of  Chdlons,  and  afterward  a  ram  from 
the  Rambouillet  flocks. 

A  table  given  by  Livingston  in  1810  is  interest- 
ing in  showing  the  effect  of  the  first  cross  on  the 
common  or  native  sheep.  The  average  weight  of 
the  fleeces  of  a  flock  of  these  was  three  pounds  ten 
ounces;  that  of  the  half-bred  Merino  offspring,  five 
pounds  one  ounce.  Similar  results  came  of  the 
larger  importation,  in  the  same  year,  by  Colonel 
Humphreys,  our  Minister  to  Spain,  of  twenty-one 
rams  and  seventy  ewes,  selected  from  the  Infan- 
tado  family.  In  1809  and  1810  Mr.  Jarvis,  Ameri- 
can Consul  at  Lisbon,  bought  nearly  four  thousand 
sheep  of  the  confiscated  flocks  of  Spanish  nobles, 
all  of  which  were  shipped  to  different  ports  in  the 
United  States,  and  in  those  years,  and  the  one 
following,  from  three  thousand  to  five  thousand 
Spanish  Merinos  were  imported  by  other  persons. 
In  1809  and  1810  half-blood  Merino  wool  was  sold 
for  seventy-five  cents  and  full  blood  for  two  dol- 
lars a  pound,  and  during  the  War  of  1812  the  latter 
sold  for  two  dollars  and  fifty  cents  a  pound.  Natu- 
rally, a  Merino  fever  was  engendered,  and  imported 
and  American-born  rams  of  the  breed  were  sold  for 
enormous  prices,  some  of  Livingston's  ram  lambs 
for  one  thousand  dollars  each.  But  such  a  sudden 
downfall  followed  the  Peace  of  Ghent  that,  before 
the  end  of  the  year  1815,  full-blooded  sheep  were 
sold  for  one  dollar  each. 


148  MERINO  SHEEP 

Till  1824  the  price  of  wool  continued  so  low 
that,  during  the  intervening  years,  nearly  all  the 
full-blood  Merino  flocks  were  broken  up  or  care- 
lessly bred.  Then  the  enactment  of  a  tariff  favor- 
ing the  production  of  fine  wool  revived  the  pros- 
trate industry,  and  unfortunately  brought  about 
the  introduction  of  the  miserable  Saxon  Merinos, 
large  numbers  of  which  were  now  imported.  In 
the  breeding  of  these,  everything  having  been 
sacrificed  to  fineness  of  wool,  the  result  was  a 
small,  puny  animal,  bearing  two,  possibly  three, 
pounds  of  very  fine,  short  wool.  Such  was  the 
craze  for  these  unworthy  favorites  of  the  hour  that 
almost  all  owners  of  Spanish  sheep  crossed  them 
with  the  Saxon,  to  the  serious  injury  of  their  flocks. 
They  held  the  foremost  place  in  America  among 
fine-wooled  sheep  for  fifteen  or  twenty  years,  and 
then  went  out  of  favor,  and  have  now  quite  dis- 
appeared, I  believe. 

The  Spanish  Merino  now  came  to  the  front 
again,  and  of  them  the  descendants  of  the  Jarvis 
and  Humphreys  importation  were  most  highly 
esteemed.  As  has  been  mentioned,  the  flocks  of 
Spain  had  sadly  deteriorated,  and  the  American 
sheep  derived  from  them  in  their  best  days  far  sur- 
passed them,  if  not  their  own  progenitors. 

Wool-growing  became  the  leading  industry  of 
the  Green  Mountain  State.  Almost  every  Ver- 
mont farmer  was  a  shepherd,  and  had  his  hah*- 


MERINO  SHEEP  149 

hundred  or  hundreds  or  thousands  of  grade  sheep 
or  full  bloods  dotting  the  ferny  pastures  of  the 
hill  country  or  the  broad  levels  of  the  Champlain 
Valley,  rank  with  English  grasses.  From  old  Fort 
Dummer  to  the  Canada  line  one  could  hardly  get 
beyond  the  sound  of  the  sheep's  bleat  unless  he 
took  to  the  great  woods,  and  even  there  he  was  j 
likely  enough  to  hear  the  intermittent  jingle  of  a 
sheep-bell  chiming  with  the  songs  of  the  hermit 
and  wood  thrushes,  or  to  meet  a  flock  driven 
clattering  over  the  pebbles  of  a  mountain  road; 
for  a  mid-wood  settler  had  his  little  herd  of  sheep, 
to  which  he  gave  in  summer  the  freedom  of  the 
woods,  and  which  took  —  alas  for  the  owner's 
crops  —  the  freedom  of  the  meadow  and  grain 
patches,  and  were  sheltered  from  the  chill  of  win- 
ter nights  in  a  frame  barn  bigger  than  their  mas- 
ter's log  house. 

In  June,  when  the  May-yeaned  lambs  were 
skipping  hi  the  sunshine  that  had  warmed  the 
pools  and  streams  till  the  bullfrogs  had  their 
voices  in  tune,  the  sheep  were  gathered  from  the 
pastures  and  driven  over  the  dusty  roads  to  the 
pens  beside  the  pools  on  the  tapped  mill-flumes 
and  washed  amid  a  pother  of  rushing  waters, 
shouts  of  laughter  of  men  and  boys,  and  discord- 
ant, plaintive  bleats  of  parted  ewes  and  lambs. 

A  fortnight  or  so  later  came  the  great  event  of 
the  shepherd's  year,  the  shearing,  for  which  great 


150  MERINO  SHEEP 

preparation  was  made  within  house  and  barn. 
The  best  the  farm  afforded  must  be  provided  for 
the  furnishing  of  the  table;  for  the  shearers  were 
not  ordinary  farm  laborers,  but  mostly  farmers 
and  farmers'  sons,  and  as  well  to  do  as  then*  em- 
ployer, who  was  likely  enough  to  shear,  in  his  turn, 
for  them.  Whoever  possessed  the  skill  of  shearing 
a  sheep  thought  it  not  beneath  him  to  ply  his  well- 
paid  handicraft  in  all  the  country  round.  For 
these  the  fatted  calf  was  killed  and  the  green  peas 
and  strawberries  were  picked.  The  barn  floor  and 
its  overhanging  scaffolds  were  carefully  swept, 
the  stables  were  littered  with  clean  straw,  the 
wool-bench  was  set  up,  and  the  reel  full  of  twine 
was  made  ready  in  its  place.  Those  were  merry 
days  in  the  old  gray  barns  that  were  not  too  fine 
to  have  swallows'  holes  in  their  gables,  moss  on 
then*  shingles,  and  a  fringe  of  hemp,  mayweed, 
and  smartweed  about  their  jagged  underpinning. 
There  was  jesting  and  the  telling  of  merry  tales 
from  morning  till  night,  and  bursts  of  laughter 
that  scared  the  swallows  out  of  the  cobwebbed 
roof -peak  and  the  sitting  hen  from  her  nest  hi  the 
left-over  haymow.  Neighbors  called  to  get  a 
taste  of  the  fun  and  the  cider,  to  see  how  the  flock 
"evridged,"  and  to  engage  hands  for  their  own 
shearing.  At  nooning,  after  the  grand  dinner, 
while  the  older  men  napped  on  the  floor,  wool- 
bench,  or  scaffold,  with  their  heads  pillowed  on 


MERINO  SHEEP  151 

soft  places,  the  young  fellows  had  trials  of 
strength  at  "pulling  stick"  or  lifting  "stiff  legs." 
The  skillful  wool-tier  was  rarer  than  the  skillful 
shearer,  and  in  much  demand  in  his  own  and 
neighboring  townships.  He  tied  the  fleeces  quickly 
and  compactly,  showing  the  best  on  the  outside, 
but  with  no  clod  of  dirty  locks  in  the  middle;  for 
in  those  days  wool  had  its  place  and  dirt  its  place, 
but  the  fleece  was  not  their  common  place.  The 
catcher  was  a  humble  but  not  unimportant  mem- 
ber of  the  force.  He  must  be  alert  and  with  a  sheep 
ready  for  each  shearer  as  wanted,  and  was  never 
to  take  up  a  sheep  by  the  wool,  but -with  his  left 
arm  underneath,  just  behind  the  fore  legs,  and  his 
right  hand  grasping  a  hind  leg.  And  there  was 
the  boy  to  pick  up  locks,  discarding  the  dirty 
ones,  which  were  swept  outdoors.  One's  back 
aches  as  he  remembers  this  unpleasant  duty  of  his 
boyhood,  when  he  was  scoffed  by  shearers  and 
scolded  by  the  wool-tier,  and  often  had  the  added 
labor  of  carrying  the  wool  to  its  storage.  Four- 
teen fleeces  tied  up  in  a  blanket  was  the  load, 
which,  if  they  had  been  of  nowadays  weight,  would 
have  burdened  a  strong  man;  but  a  five-pound 
fleece  was  a  heavy  one  then.  I  have  never 
been  present  at  one  of  the  modern  public  shear- 
ings, which  come  before  the  swallows  do,  while 
winter  is  still  skirmishing  with  spring,  and  are 
celebrated  in  the  local  papers;  but  I  doubt  if  they 


152  MERINO  SHEEP 

are  such  hearty  and  enjoyable  seasons  as  the  old- 
fashioned  shearings  were. 

The  wool-buyers  scoured  the  country  at  or 
after  shearing-time,  and  drove  their  bargains 
with  the  farmers.  The  small  lots  of  wool  were 
hauled  in  bulk  to  some  central  point  of  shipment, 
while  the  larger  clips  were  sacked  on  the  grower's 
premises.  The  sack  was  suspended  through  a 
hole  of  its  own  diameter  in  an  upper  floor  and 
a  few  fleeces  were  thrown  in,  when  the  packer 
lowered  himself  into  it  and  placed  and  trod  the 
wool  as  it  was  passed  to  him  till  he  had  trod  his 
way  to  the  top.  Then  the  sacks  were  lowered, 
sewed,  weighed,  marked,  and  went  their  way  to 
market. 

The  "tag-locks"  and  pulled  wool  were  mostly 
worked  up  in  the  neighboring  small  factories  into 
stocking-yarn,  flannel,  and  blankets  for  the  farm- 
er's use,  and  into  the  then  somewhat  famous 
"Vermont  gray,"  which  was  the  common  cold- 
weather  outer  clothing  of  New  England  male 
farm-folk.  Readers  of  Thoreau  will  remember 
that  he  mentions  it  more  than  once,  and  thought 
it  good  enough  wear  for  him.  The  Yankee  farmer 
wore  it  "to  mill  an'  to  meetin',"  and  the  young 
men  of  forty  years  ago  were  not  ashamed  to  appear 
in  such  sheep's  clothing  at  the  paring  bee  or  the 
ball. 

Vermont,  become  so  famous  as  a  wool-produc- 


MERINO  SHEEP  153 

ing  State  that  English  cutlers  stamped  their  best 
shears  "True  Vermonters,"  presently  became 
more  famous  as  the  nursery  of  improvement  of  the 
Merino  breed,  to  which  object  several  intelligent 
breeders  devoted  their  efforts.  By  selection  of  the 
best  of  the  animals  obtainable,  the  form  of  the 
sheep  was  made  more  robust,  the  size  increased, 
and  with  it  the  length  and  thickness  of  all  parts 
of  the  fleece,  so  that  the  wool  on  a  sheep's  belly 
was  nearly  as  long  as  that  on  the  sides. 

French  Merinos,  so  much  changed,  since  the 
importations  by  Livingston,  from  the  fashion  of 
their  Spanish  ancestors  that  they  had  become  a 
distinct  family,  were  introduced,  and  had  their 
admirers,  as  had  the  Silesian  Merinos.  These 
modern  French  sheep  were  larger  and  coarser 
than  the  original  Spaniards;  the  Silesians,  smaller 
than  the  French,  but  handsomer  and  hardier. 

As  naturally  as  in  former  times,  a  "Merino 
fever"  again  began  to  rage;  fabulous  prices  were 
paid  for  sheep,  and  men  mortgaged  their  farms  to 
become  possessors  of  a  score  of  full  bloods.  There 
was  no  registry  of  flocks,  and  jockeys  sold  grade 
sheep,  numbered,  lampblacked,  and  oiled  up  to 
the  desired  blackness  and  greasiness,  for  full  bloods 
at  prices  tenfold  beyond  their  real  worth.  Grow- 
ers ran  to  the  opposite  extreme  from  that  to  which 
they  had  gone  during  the  Saxon  craze,  and  now  so 
sacrificed  everything  to  weight  of  fleece  that  Ver- 


154  MERINO  SHEEP 

mont  wool  fell  into  the  evil  repute  of  being  filthy 
stuff,  more  grease  and  dirt  than  honest  fiber.  The 
tide  ebbed  again  to  lowest  watermark;  again  the 
inheritors  of  the  blue  blood  of  the  Paulars  and  In- 
f  antados  went  to  the  shambles  at  the  prices  paid 
for  the  meanest  plebeian  natives,  and  it  seemed 
as  if  the  sheep-farming  of  Vermont  had  got  its 
death-blow. 

Even  so  had  the  farming  of  sheep  for  wool;  for 
in  the  great  West  a  vast  region  had  been  opened 
wherein  sheep  could  be  kept  at  such  a  fraction  of 
the  cost  entailed  in  winter-burdened  New  Eng- 
land that  there  was  nothing  for  the  Yankee  wool- 
grower  but  to  give  up  the  losing  fight.  So  most 
shepherds  turned  dairymen. 

But,  gifted  with  a  wise  foresight,  a  few  owners 
of  fine  flocks  kept  them  and  bred  them  as  care- 
fully as  ever,  and  in  the  f ullness  of  time  were  richly 
rewarded.  After  a  while  it  became  evident  that 
the  flocks  of  the  West  could  only  be  kept  up  to  the 
desired  standard  by  frequent  infusions  of  the  East- 
ern blood;  and  so  it  has  come  about  that  sheep- 
breeding  in  Vermont  is  a  greater,  stronger-founded, 
and  more  prosperous  industry  than  ever  before. 
Each  year  more  and  more  buyers  come  from  Texas, 
California,  Colorado,  and  Australia;  and  on  many 
an  unpretending  Vermont  farm,  after  examination 
of  points  and  pedigree,  often  more  carefully  kept 
than  their  owner's,  the  horn-coroneted  dons  of 


MERINO  SHEEP  155 

the  fold  change  masters  at  prices  rivaling  those  of 
blood  horses. 

The  care  given  these  high-bred,  fine-wooled 
sheep  is  a  wonderful  contrast  to  the  little  re- 
ceived by  flocks  in  the  times  when  wool-growing 
was  the  chief  object  of  OUT  sheep  farmers;  when, 
though  sheep  had  good  and  abundant  food,  and 
fairly  comfortable  shelter  from  cold  and  storm, 
they  had  nothing  more.  The  lambs  were  dropped 
in  May  after  the  ewes  were  turned  out  to  grass, 
and  were  not  looked  after  oftener  than  once  a  day 
in  fine  weather,  and  got  only  their  mother's  milk, 
if  the  ewe  was  a  good  milker  and  was  fond  enough 
of  her  ungainly  yeanling  to  own  it  and  give  it  such 
care  as  sheep  give  their  young.  Now  the  dons  and 
dofias  of  blue  blood  have  better  quarters  in  winter 
than  many  a  poor  mortal,  in  barns  so  warm  that 
water  will  not  freeze  in  them,  and  are  fed  grain 
and  roots  as  well  as  hay,  and  are  sheltered  from 
even  soft  summer  rains,  that  their  raiment  may 
suffer  no  loss  of  color.  The  lambs  are  brought 
forth  when  spring  has  nothing  in  Vermont  of  that 
season  but  the  name,  and  are  fed  with  cow's  milk, 
or  put  to  nurse  with  coarse-wooled  foster-mothers, 
more  bountiful  milkers  than  Merinos,  and  have  a 
man  to  care  for  them  night  and  day.  The  old-time 
rams  tilted  it  out  on  the  field  of  honor,  to  the  sore 
bruising  of  heads  and  battering  of  helmets,  and 
sometimes  loss  of  life.  But  now  rams  of  a  warlike 


156  MERINO  SHEEP 

turn  are  hooded  like  falcons,  that  they  may  do 
no  harm  to  each  other  and  their  peaceable  com- 
rades. A  blow  might  cost  their  owner  a  thousand 
dollars. 

The  successful  sheep-breeder  is  up  to  his  knees 
in  clover,  but  the  eastern  wool-grower  is  on  barren 
ground.  A  friend  who  lives  in  the  heart  of  the 
Vermont  sheep-breeding  region  writes  me:  "Or- 
dinary rams  sell  for  from  ten  dollars  to  twenty- 
five  dollars  a  head;  ordinary  ewes  for  twenty  dol- 
lars. The  highest  real  price  any  one  has  known  a 
ram  to  sell  for  within  two  years,  eleven  hundred 
dollars;  the  same  for  ewes,  three  hundred  dollars. 
The  wool  of  these  sheep  sells  for  twenty  cents  a 
pound.  The  wool  itself  does  not  pay  for  growing 
in  the  way  in  which  these  sheep  are  reared  and 
cared  for.  The  wool  is  a  secondary  object;  the 
bodies  are  what  they  are  bred  for. ...  In  the  way 
sheep  are  kept  on  the  large  ranches  southwest  and 
west,  the  sheep  so  soon  deteriorate  that  they  are 
obliged  to  have  thorough-bred  rams  to  keep  up 
their  flocks.  This  is  particularly  the  case  in  warm 
climates.  Nature  gets  rid  of  the  superfluous  cloth- 
ing as  soon  as  possible." 

It  is  interesting  to  compare  the  portraits  of  the 
best  Merinos  of  eighty  years  ago  with  the  improved 
American  Merinos  of  the  present  day,  and  see 
what  a  change  has  been  wrought  in  the  race  with- 
out change  of  blood.  It  is  not  unlikely  that  to  the 


MERINO  SHEEP  157 

uneducated  eye  the  more  natural  and  picturesque 
sheep  of  the  old  time  would  seem  more  comely 
than  the  bewrinkled,  enfolded  and  aproned  prod- 
uct of  the  many  years  of  careful  breeding.  As  a 
thing  of  beauty  the  modern  Merino  ram  can  hardly 
be  called  a  success,  but  there  are  millions  in  this 
knight  of  the  Golden  Fleece. 


A  LITTLE  BEAVER 

WHEN  you  first  see  the  beaver  you  are  likely  to 
feel  that  you  already  have  some  slight  acquaintance 
with  him,  and  then,  searching  your  memory,  you 
will  probably  find  you  have  been  thinking  of  the 
muskrat.  Indeed,  the  animals  have  many  points 
of  resemblance,  and  except  that  the  muskrat's 
tail  is  narrower,  and  longer  hi  proportion,  he  is 
an  excellent  miniature  portrait  of  his  bigger  and 
more  valuable  cousin,  the  beaver. 

The  hirsute  face  of  the  muskrat,  grim  with  its 
small,  deep-set  eyes  and  grinning  incisors,  his 
long,  brown,  shining  fur  and  soft  under-coat  of 
drab,  his  scaly  shanks  and  webbed  feet,  his  whole 
rounded  clumsy  form  make  a  faithful  reproduction 
in  small  of  the  larger  animal.  On  land  both  have 
the  same  awkward,  waddling  gait;  in  the  more  con- 
genial element  both  swim  with  the  same  rapid, 
even  stroke,  and  dive  with  equal  startling,  light- 
ning-like rapidity.  The  muskrat  builds  for  a  sea- 
son's use  a  neat  and  comfortable  house,  but  it  pro- 
vides no  entrance,  such  as  there  is  in  the  beaver's 
domicile,  for  the  carrying  in  and  out  of  food.  The 
muskrat  does  not,  like  the  beaver,  lay  up  a  store  of 
winter  food,  but  lives  from  paw  to  mouth.  How- 
ever, like  the  beaver's  lodge,  the  muskrat's  house 


A  LITTLE  BEAVER  159 

has  a  burrow  in  the  bank,  as  a  retreat  for  use  in 
various  emergencies. 

Among  these  are  the  attacks  of  man  and  wild 
animals,  and  the  rise  of  water.  For  the  muskrat 
has  not  the  sagacity  in  forecasting  the  seasons 
which  many  attribute  to  him.  When  he  builds  the 
walls  of  his  house  thin  the  winter  is  as  likely  as  not 
to  be  unusually  cold.  If  he  builds  his  dome  low 
and  squat,  the  fall  floods  will  probably  drive  him 
to  his  burrow  in  the  bank;  but  still  the  second- 
hand prophets  do  not  lose  faith  in  him. 

The  muskrat  is  not  a  builder  of  dams,  but  rather 
a  destroyer  of  them.  He  will  avail  himself  of  the 
ponds  they  create,  but  he  has  so  little  compre- 
hension of  their  purpose  that  he  will  undermine 
them  with  his  burrows.  Then  some  fine  afternoon 
he  will  awake  to  find  the  pond  has  run  away,  and 
left  nothing  in  its  place  but  a  mud  flat  with  a  thin 
stream  meandering  through;  and  he  will  wonder  at 
the  cause  of  the  disaster.  After  faring  sumptuously 
for  a  few  days  on  the  stranded  dying  mussels,  he 
will  journey  in  quest  of  fresh  under-water  pastures. 

As  there  are  hermit  beavers,  so  there  are  hermit 
muskrats,  disappointed  or  misanthropic  old  fellows, 
who  seek  seclusion  from  their  kind  in  some  remote 
pool  or  small  brook.  Here  the  hermit  lives  in  com- 
parative safety  from  his  worst  enemy,  man,  gather- 
ing generous  subsistence  in  summer  from  the  sedges 
of  the  waterside  and  the  green  things  of  fields,  the 


160  A  LITTLE  BEAVER 

corn  bordering  the  brook,  and  the  root-crop.  But 
his  solitary  life  does  not  exempt  him  from  danger. 
When  he  makes  nightly  foraging  incursions  inland 
the  prowling  fox  may  catch  his  scent  drifting  on 
the  breeze,  and  come  stealthily  up-wind  upon 
him;  or  the  great  horned  owl  may  swoop  down 
out  of  the  silence  of  the  night. 

At  home  the  muskrat  is  not  secure  from  his  in- 
veterate enemy,  the  mink,  whose  slender,  snake- 
like  body  finds  easy  entrance  into  his  burrow. 

With  winter  come  short  commons,  scant  glean- 
ings of  water-plant  roots  on  the  bottom,  and  long 
overland  tours  of  exploration,  when  perhaps  a 
meal-barrel  in  a  hog-house  is  discovered,  or,  by 
greater  good  fortune,  secret  entry  to  a  cellar  is 
made,  and  great  store  of  succulent  vegetables  come 
at.  But  it  is  likelier  that  hunger  and  thirst  neces- 
sitate a  return  to  wider  waters.  The  marsh-bor- 
dered streams,  with  then"  slow,  smooth  currents, 
their  steady  rise  and  fall  of  water,  their  broad 
meadows  of  innumerable  aquatic  plants  and  great 
beds  of  fat  lily-roots,  are  the  proper  and  appointed 
abiding-places  of  the  muskrats.  Here  is  abundant 
material  for  house-building,  no  current  to  interfere 
with  "the  building,  or  to  chafe  and  wear  the  house 
away;  and  here  there  is  an  inexhaustible  supply  of 
vegetable  and  animal  food. 

When  the  waning  of  summer  is  calendared  by 
the  bloom  of  goldenrod  and  aster  on  the  upland, 


A  LITTLE  BEAVER  161 

and  when  cardinal-flowers  and  ripened  water- 
maples  kindle  rival  flames  on  the  inner  border  of 
the  marsh,  the  winter  dwelling  of  the  muskrat  is 
builded  unseen  in  the  darkness.  Night  by  night 
grows  the  dome  of  fresh  green  rushes,  broad- 
leaved  flags,  angular-stalked  sedges;  and  it  is 
hardly  noticeable  among  the  green,  rank  standing 
plants  until  the  thatch  has  grown  dun  with  curing. 
Swift-winged  teal  alight  there,  and  the  great  dusky 
ducks  climb  to  the  housetop  for  outlook  over  the 
marsh,  but  rarely  except  at  night  is  the  owner  to 
be  seen.  He  is  both  lake-dweller  and  cave-dweller, 
and  between  his  two  unlike  habitations  communi- 
cation is  had  by  a  hidden  path  in  the  tangle  of 
weeds,  a  pitfall  for  the  unwary  wader  of  the  marsh. 
With  the  completion  of  the  house,  a  new  danger 
threatens  the  builders  and  then*  young  family. 

The  mink  and  the  owl  have  harassed  the  nightly 
labors  and  waylaid  the  lop-eared  youngsters  who 
made  short  excursions  from  the  paternal  roof; 
but  now  of  a  dew-silvered  morning  a  knotted  wisp 
of  sedge  or  rushes  or  a  patch  of  birch  bark  calls 
your  attention  to  a  "tally-stick,"  which  secures  a 
cruel  trap.  This  has  been  set  perhaps  in  the  crumb- 
littered  feed-bed  outside  the  house,  or  even  in  the 
darkness  of  the  inner  chamber,  to  which  the  trapper 
has  gained  access  by  removing  a  bit  of  the  wall, 
now  neatly  replaced. 

Only  spendthrift  trappers  follow  this  wasteful 


162  A  LITTLE  BEAVER 

practice,  but  they  carry  it  on  in  fall  and  winter, 
especially  in  the  latter  season,  when  the  ice  facili- 
tates travel  over  the  marsh. 

At  these  seasons  men  go  quietly  among  the 
muskrat-houses,  armed  with  one-tined  spears, 
which  they  drive  with  such  accuracy  that  they 
rarely  fail  to  strike  the  inner  chamber  and  almost 
always  impale  one  victim,  and  oftener  two. 

The  direst  calamity  that  can  befall  the  muskrat 
occurs  when,  at  a  low  stage  of  water,  extremely 
cold  weather  freezes  the  marsh  to  the  bottom  and 
cuts  the  animals  off  from  the  supply  of  aquatic 
roots.  Whole  families  starve  in  the  houses;  a  few 
dig  their  way  to  the  outer  world  and  wander  far 
and  wide  over  the  snowy  waste  in  quest  of  food,  per- 
haps to  find  some  meager  fare,  but  more  probably 
to  perish  by  starvation  or  violence.  In  their  eager 
quest  for  water,  they  sometimes  gnaw  through 
lead  pipes,  and  so  work  a  deal  of  mischief. 

But  there  are  always  some  who  survive  all  the 
dangers  that  beset  them,  and  see  the  beauty  of 
spring  again  unfold  upon  the  earth.  Then  the  sun- 
lit, open  water  invites  them  to  freedom  and  boun- 
teous fare,  and  their  untenanted  houses  go  adrift, 
in  wrack  and  ruin,  on  the  wide  overflow  of  the 
spring  flood.  The  scattered  remnant  of  survivors 
coast  along  the  low  shores  in  quest  of  mates,  whin- 
ing a  plaintive  call  as  they  ply  their  noiseless  pad- 
dles. A  traveler  tells  of  hearing  a  cry  which  he  mis- 


A  LITTLE  BEAVER  163 

took  for  that  of  a  baby,  but  discovered  to  be  the 
plaint  of  a  tame  beaver,  which  was  being  abused 
by  some  Indian  children.  So  we  may  conclude 
that  the  muskrat  and  beaver  have  another  point  of 
resemblance  in  their  voices. 

Having  found  mates,  as  have  the  garrulous 
blackbirds  in  the  trees  above  them,  the  ducks 
splashing  into  the  water  beside  them,  and  the 
bitterns  making  nuptial  rejoicing  from  drowsy 
sun-bathed  coves,  they  begin  to  increase  and  mul- 
tiply their  kind.  In  a  few  favoring  seasons  the 
marshes  are  again  populous  with  furry  inhabitants, 
and  the  conical  huts  are  thick  along  the  border 
of  the  channel  in  autumn.  It  is  wonderful  how 
through  all  the  years  the  muskrats  maintain  their 
numbers,  for  they  are  not  sagacious  or  shy  of  man; 
indeed,  they  frequently  establish  themselves  in 
close  neighborhood  to  him,  and  make  little  at- 
tempt at  concealment.  They  blunder  carelessly 
into  traps,  and  do  not  understand  the  danger  signal 
of  human  scent. 

A  writer  on  natural  history  tells  us,  in  illustra- 
tion of  these  animals'  sagacity,  that  in  swimming 
from  place  to  place  to  escape  detection  they  will 
cover  their  heads  with  a  green  twig  held  in  their 
mouths.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  however,  this  is  sim- 
ply their  mode  of  carrying  food  to  then*  burrows, 
and  usually  their  burdens  do  not  conceal  their 
heads  at  all,  but  trail  beside  or  behind  them. 


164  A  LITTLE  BEAVER 

When  alarmed,  the  muskrat  dives  quick  as  a 
flash,  and  swims  far  and  well  under  water  before 
breaking  the  surface  for  air;  and  this  seems  to  be 
his  only  idea  of  escaping  from  danger. 

The  secret  of  the  persistent  holding  out  of  the 
muskrat  against  the  persecution  of  natural  enemies 
and  the  relentless  pursuit  by  man  lies  in  its  fecun- 
dity, its  hardiness,  its  easy  adaptation  to  changed 
conditions,  and  the  abundance  of  food  supplied  by 
every  stream  in  which  water-plants  grow  and  the 
fresh-water  mussel  lives.  Long  may  the  tribe  en- 
dure to  give  a  touch  of  wild  life  to  our  tamed 
streams. 


TRAPPING  UP  LITTLE  OTTER 

MUCH  talking  of  old  times  is  one  of  the  signs  of  old 
age,  as  common  an  accompaniment  of  it  as  gray 
hairs,  toothless  jaws,  dimmed  eyes,  and  stiffened 
joints,  though  a  far  pleasanter  one.  The  weary 
mind  clings  more  tenaciously  to  pleasant  memories 
of  youth  than  to  fleeting,  trivial  incidents  of  yes- 
terday. The  old  man  longs  to  live  them  over  again 
in  story,  and  his  tongue  would  fain  be  wagging. 
To  that  end  he  must  have  an  audience.  Young 
folks  will  serve  if  interested  to  hear  of  the  days 
when  the  woods  were  populous  with  game,  and  the 
clear,  shaded  streams  swarmed  with  fish  that  were 
not  always  lost.  Better  by  far  is  some  old  com- 
rade, a  good  listener,  yet  breaking  in  now  and  then 
with  a  reminder  of  some  half-f  orgotten  incident  of 
the  happy,  care-free  days.  An  old  friend,  an  old 
pipe  and  an  open  fire  —  happy  combination  to 
bring  out  talk  of  old  times. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  spring  we  went  to  Bur- 
ton's Pond?  "  a  familiar  voice  asks  out  of  the  cloud 
of  tobacco  smoke.  Yes,  and  how  we  were  enticed 
there  by  the  marvelous  tales  told  of  swarms  of 
muskrats,  told  us  by  one  without  regard  for  truth, 
when  we  were  looking  about  for  trapping-grounds. 
We  could  trap  up  Little  Otter  as  far  as  it  would 


166     TRAPPING  UP  LITTLE  OTTER 

float  our  boats,  and  then  carry  them  over  to  the 
pond,  make  a  camp  there,  and  trap  for  a  week,  and 
then  come  home  to  enjoy  our  fortunes  at  leisure. 
Besides  the  money  that  was  in  it,  there  would  be 
lots  of  fun,  and  so,  having  gained  parental  con- 
sent and  parental  aid  in  the  shape  of  provisions  — 
for,  though  grown-up,  we  were  not  of  age  —  we 
three  set  forth  on  our  expedition  in  two  boats. 

We  embarked  a  little  above  the  second  falls, 
Joe  and  I  in  his  boat,  and  By  in  his,  paddling  and 
poling  at  a  leisurely  rate,  setting  a  trap  at  every 
likely  sign,  whether  burrow,  feed-bed,  or  nightly 
haunted  log  or  tussock,  and  so  on,  as  far  as  could 
be  properly  gone  over  next  day.  On  the  way  up 
each  boat  kept  its  allotted  side,  never  intruding  on 
the  other,  but  on  the  downstream  course  it  was 
"go  as  you  please,"  as  fast  as  current  and  paddle 
would  bear  us,  with  an  eye  out  for  a  chance  shot  at 
a  swimming  rat.  The  trapping  here,  when  water 
rose  and  fell  several  inches  in  the  course  of  the  day 
and  night,  was  very  different  from  that  in  the 
marshy  lower  creek,  where  there  was  little  varia- 
tion in  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  sluggish  current,  and 
a  trap  remained  nearly  at  the  same  depth  at  which 
it  was  set. 

Next  morning  we  voyaged  upstream  again,  tak- 
ing up  traps  and  catch  till  we  reached  the  end  of 
yesterday's  voyage,  where  we  began  setting  until 
we  came  to  rapids  so  swift  and  rough  that  we  had 


TRAPPING  UP  LITTLE  OTTER      167 

all  we  could  do  to  make  headway.  Then  slack- 
water  and  "sign"  for  a  few  more  traps  up  to  the 
torn  water  of  Dover  Rapids,  the  busy  scene  of 
many  manufactures  in  old  times,  all  deserted  now 
and  silent  but  for  the  rush  of  the  rapids  and  the 
roar  of  the  cataract,  no  vestige  left  but  a  rusted 
shaft,  a  broken  wheel,  a  grass-grown  embankment 
—  memorials  of  departed  industries  and  dead 
hopes. 

We  lugged  and  dragged  our  boats  and  cargoes 
around  the  falls  and  launched  them  again  in  slack 
water,  reaching  in  lazy  loops  to  the  site  of  the  old 
Boston  Iron  Company's  forges.  A  little  below  it 
we  rounded  a  long  bend  half  encircling  the  Old 
Indian  Garden,  where  they  say  was  an  Indian 
cornfield.  There  was  a  more  authentic  memorial 
of  times  almost  as  old  in  the  venerable  tree,  living 
and  standing  with  a  deep  notch  cut  in  it  with  the 
plain  marks  of  a  beaver's  teeth.  An  old  man,  a 
son  of  the  first  settler  at  this  place,  told  me  that 
the  last  trout  of  Little  Otter  were  caught  here,  and 
were  plenty  enough  in  his  father's  day,  but  I  never 
found  any  one  old  enough  to  remember  seeing  a 
beaver.  Hard  by  on  the  flats  of  Mud  Creek  was 
a  great  haunt  of  these  animals,  long  ago  trapped 
to  extermination  by  Iroquois  and  Waubanakee 
and  adventurous  white  fur-hunters.  The  levels 
were  flooded  by  dams  that  can  still  be  traced,  and 
ditching  the  alluvial  soil  brings  to  light  a  pave- 


168     TRAPPING  UP  LITTLE  OTTER 

ment  of  peeled  sticks,  the  tooth-marks  as  distinct 
as  when  first  made,  but  crumbling  to  pieces  after 
brief  exposure. 

Here,  where  the  old  company's  throbbing  ham- 
mers incessantly  shook  the  forest  sixty  years  ago, 
a  roaring  rapid  compelled  another  toilsome  carry, 
happily  the  last  awaiting  us  in  these  waters.  Now 
it  was  easy  navigating  the  slow  current.  The 
meadows  on  a  level  with  our  eyes  were  growing 
green  in  the  pleasant  April  weather  that  touched 
us  with  the  comfortable  indolence  of  spring  fever, 
as  it  seemed  to  touch  the  crow  lazily  hunting  grubs 
on  the  broad  intervale,  and  the  blackbirds  oozing 
a  gurgle  of  melody  and  discord  from  the  elms 
above  us* 

A  woodchuck  waddling  along  the  bank  pros- 
pecting for  the  earliest  clover  fools  us  into  stalking 
him  for  a  muskrat  until  he  takes  alarm  and  scurries 
into  his  burrow  with  a  derisive  whistle.  We  came 
head  to  head  above  the  banks  of  a  bend  with 
a  great  blue  heron  that  sprang  to  flight  with  a 
startled  croak,  and  frightened  a  pair  of  dusky 
ducks,  startling  us  in  turn  with  sudden  splash 
and  flutter,  and  taking  new  fright  at  the  sight  of 
our  boats.  Doubtless  the  pair  were  in  quest  of  a 
secluded  summer  home  where  they  might  rear 
their  annual  brood  of  ducklings  in  peace,  and  we 
hoped  our  brief  intrusion  might  not  change  their 
plans,  which  gave  promise  of  sport  the  coming  fall. 


TRAPPING  UP  LITTLE  OTTER      169 

When  the  well-named  hillock,  Hedgehog  Hill, 
bristled  far  behind  us,  the  creek  narrowed  to  a 
channel  that  barely  gave  passage  to  our  boats,  and 
our  voyage  came  to  an  end  where  a  short  bridge 
spanned  it. 

A  team  met  us,  and  loading  our  boats  on  to  the 
wagon  went  lumbering  and  bumping  over  the 
rough-dried  clay  highway  toward  our  destination. 
Happily  escaping  shipwreck  on  this  dried  sea  of 
mud,  we  came  to  a  bright  little  torrent  of  cascades 
and  rapids,  which  we  rightly  guessed  to  be  the 
outlet  of  our  pond,  then  saw  the  gable  of  a  sawmill 
peeping  over  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  then  came  to 
its  hospitable  door,  the  whole  open  side  gaping  a 
welcome  to  customers  and  their  logs.  Even  so  long 
ago  the  old-fashioned  "up-and-down"  sawmill  had 
been  almost  entirely  superseded  by  the  modern 
circular  saw,  and  we  lingered  a  little  while  to  re- 
fresh our  earliest  recollections  with  watching  the 
automatic  movements  of  this  relic  of  old  times.  It 
was  as  interesting  to  us,  grown  up,  if  not  so 
wonderful  to  us,  as  when  callow  urchins,  to  see  the 
keen  saw  gnawing  its  gradual  way  steadily  through 
the  log,  tossing  up  jets  of  sawdust  till  the  carriage 
tripped  the  gate  lever,  and  the  machinery  creaked 
to  a  slow  halt;  then,  hi  obedience  to  the  push  of  a 
lever,  the  carriage  trundled  the  log  back  to  its 
first  position,  the  leaping  saw  attacked  it,  and 
again  gnawed  through  it.  What  a  wonder  it  must 


170     TRAPPING  UP  LITTLE  OTTER 

have  been  when  it  came  to  push  aside  the  clumsy 
old  pit  saw  and  its  two  attendants,  the  name  of  one 
of  whom,  the  pitman,  was  fitly  appropriated  by 
one  of  its  parts! 

We  were  not  looking  at  the  mill  all  this  while 
without  more  than  half  an  eye  to  the  pond,  nor 
without  some  disappointment.  There  it  lay,  clear 
and  bright  in  the  April  sun,  but  sorely  disfigured 
by  the  dead,  drowned  trees  that  stood  around  and 
knee-deep  in  it,  and  among  which  its  upper  end 
was  lost,  for  it  was  an  artificial  pond,  made  by 
throwing  a  dam  across  a  wooded  dell,  and  so  of 
course  killing  all  the  flooded  trees.  Some  were 
evergreens  and  some  deciduous,  and  all  were  ugly 
in  dead  nakedness.  Beyond,  we  could  hear  the 
brook  brawling  its  way  down  the  mountain,  a 
stream  once  populous  with  trout  and  not  yet 
quite  fishless,  so  a  kingfisher  proclaimed,  mapping 
an  aerial  tracing  of  its  course,  with  continuous 
clatter.  Some  bunches  of  driftweed  lodged  among 
tree  trunks  that  might  be  debris  of  ruined  muskrat 
houses,  and  a  modest  display  of  sign  on  a  floating 
log  gave  evidence  of  the  presence  of  muskrats.  A 
clumsy  scow  with  a  broken  trap  and  a  tally  stick 
lying  in  the  bottom,  grounded  on  the  bank  near  the 
bulkhead  of  the  flume,  showed  a  rival  at  hand. 

Pulling  our  boats  into  the  water,  we  began  ex- 
ploring the  pond,  keeping  an  eye  out  for  a  good 
place  for  a  camp.  The  shores  were  low  and  damp, 


TRAPPING  UP  LITTLE  OTTER     171 

and  we  could  not  see  anywhere  from  the  water  a 
place  at  all  to  our  liking.  We  found  promising 
places  for  a  few  traps,  and  having  set  them  became 
aware  that  it  was  time  to  search  in  earnest  for  a 
night's  lodging.  The  sawyer  gave  us  a  flat  refusal 
when  we  asked  for  a  chance  to  spread  our  buffalo 
skins  on  the  kitchen  floor.  Evidently  he  did  not 
look  kindly  upon  our  invasion  of  his  domain, 
though  we  had  been  told  that  no  one  trapped  here 
and  the  rats  were  going  to  waste,  dying  of  old  age. 
However,  he  afterward  came  to  be  on  trading 
terms,  furnishing  us  with  some  articles  that  we 
found  ourselves  in  need  of.  Among  them  I  re- 
member some  dip  candles  which  were  the  most  re- 
markable triumphs  of  the  chandler's  art  we  had 
ever  seen.  We  called  them  self-supporting  wicks, 
for  it  was  a  marvel  how  a  limp,  loosely  twisted 
cotton  cord  could  stand  with  such  a  thin  casing  of 
tallow.  But  they  fitted  our  kind  of  sconce  —  a 
split  stick  —  much  better  than  larger  ones  would 
have  done.  We  were  making  up  our  minds  to  be 
thankful  for  tramps'  quarters  if  we  could  find  a 
hospitable  haymow;  but  just  then  we  fell  in  with  a 
cousin  of  By's,  whose  family  lived  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, and  having  heard  of  our  presence  there  had 
sent  him  in  search  of  us  to  invite  us  home.  It  was 
all  right  for  By  to  accept  the  proffered  hospitality 
of  his  relatives,  but  Joe  and  I  were  strangers,  and 
it  was  rather  awkward  to  crowd  ourselves  in.  But 


hunger  and  weariness  overcame  our  scruples,  and 
our  hospitable  entertainers  soon  made  us  forget 
we  were  strangers  wearing  mud-stained  clothes. 
In  the  course  of  the  evening  chat  around  the 
kitchen  stove  we  were  told  of  a  tenantless  log 
house  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  pond  that  might 
serve  our  purpose  as  a  camp  if  we  could  get  the 
consent  of  its  owner. 

Accordingly,  the  next  morning  I  was  delegated 
to  interview  him.  I  found  him  at  work  in  an  ad- 
jacent field,  a  man  with  a  pleasant  face  that  prom- 
ised a  favorable  answer,  which  was  cheerfully  given 
when  he  was  assured  that  we  had  no  evil  designs 
on  the  community.  The  old  house  had  one  room, 
doorless  and  windowless,  and  without  a  fireplace, 
though  there  was  a  chimney  built  from  the  cham- 
ber floor  with  a  pipe  hole  in  the  bottom  for  the  ac- 
commodation of  a  stove.  We  set  to  work  to  make 
the  most  of  this  by  building  a  primitive  fireplace, 
consisting  of  a  quantity  of  clay  mud  spread  di- 
rectly beneath  the  chimney  and  covered  with  flat 
stones  embedded  in  it  to  bring  them  to  an  even 
surface.  Upon  this  we  could  make  enough  fire  to 
do  a  little  very  plain  cooking,  afford  a  little  warmth 
and  a  great  deal  of  smoke,  some  of  which  crawled 
up  the  chimney  after  the  room  was  completely 
filled.  During  the  smokiest  progress  of  building  the 
fire  we  lay  prone  upon  the  floor,  breathing  a  little 
and  weeping  much  until  the  worst  was  over  and 


TRAPPING  UP  LITTLE  OTTER      173 

we  could  crouch  around  our  hearthstones  to  frizzle 
a  slice  of  salt  pork  or  warm  ourselves. 

We  had  the  luck  to  find  a  two-inch  plank  on  the 
premises,  which  we  set  edgewise  in  a  corner  at  a 
proper  distance  from  one  wall,  then  filled  the  space 
with  straw  purchased  of  the  sawyer,  and  spreading 
the  buffalo  skins  on  top  we  were  furnished  with  a 
luxurious  bed.  The  door  being  gone,  we  boarded 
up  its  place  permanently,  using  the  window  hole 
for  ingress  and  egress,  tacking  up  some  boards  to 
keep  out  the  weather  when  we  were  in  for  the  night. 

Our  arrangements  for  beginning  housekeeping 
being  completed,  we  made  the  first  round  of  our 
traps.  The  result  was  not  encouraging;  the  water 
had  risen  with  the  shutting  down  of  the  mill  gate, 
covering  almost  every  trap  so  deep  that  they  were 
untouched.  We  made  allowance  for  this  rise  when 
resetting,  and  had  better  luck,  but  were  at  no 
time  overburdened  with  skinning  and  stretching 
skins,  for  the  place  was  not  overstocked  with  rats, 
and  we  had  convincing  proof  that  toll  was  regu- 
larly taken  out  of  our  light  catch.  The  navigation 
was  a  continual  vexation  by  reason  of  stumps  just 
under  water,  on  which  a  boat  would  snag  itself 
with  a  graceful  ease  that  was  the  poetry  of  motion, 
and  pivot  thereon  in  exasperating  response  to  our 
futile  efforts  to  get  her  off  with  the  bottom  out  of 
sounding  by  paddle  or  oar,  and  nothing  within 
reach  to  push  against. 


174     TRAPPING  UP  LITTLE  OTTER 

When  we  got  there,  there  was  pleasant  seclu- 
sion at  the  upper  end  of  the  pond,  paled  hi  by  the 
ragged  gray  trees,  where  the  shallow  water  was 
fretted  by  the  ripples  of  the  incoming  brook,  whose 
silvern  babble  came  from  the  mountain  dell  along 
with  the  boisterous  cackle  of  a  log-cock.  Some  tiny 
minnows,  which  it  pleased  us  to  believe  were  trout, 
flashed  to  and  fro  across  the  golden-barred  bottom, 
as  the  basking  frogs  cut  short  their  lazy  croaking 
and  splashed  into  the  water  at  our  approach. 

There  was  no  resisting  the  spell  of  the  indolent 
atmosphere  that  the  April  sun  distilled,  and  step- 
ping ashore  we  went  back  out  of  the  desolation  of 
drowned  trees  to  living  woods  and  loafed  our  fill 
on  moss-cushioned  logs.  When  the  day  and  what 
we  called  its  work  were  done,  and  the  long  shadows 
widened  into  twilight,  we  climbed  in  at  our  win- 
dow, nailed  up  the  boards  behind  us,  illuminated 
our  quarters  with  a  couple  of  the  sawyer's  dips, 
"one  to  see  the  other  by,"  Joe  said,  and  lighted  a 
fire  on  the  hearth.  After  enduring  a  half-hour  of 
smoky  torment,  we  were  rewarded  with  a  bed  of 
coals,  over  which  we  roasted  some  choice  quarters 
of  the  most  carefully  dressed  muskrats,  or  frizzled 
slices  of  salt  pork,  and  if  inclined  to  extreme  luxury, 
toasted  our  brown  bread.  With  sharp-set  appetites 
and  raw  onions  for  sauce,  we  would  not  have  ex- 
changed our  supper  for  the  President's. 

After  it  the  pipes  and  quiet  enjoyment  of  smoke 


TRAPPING  UP  LITTLE  OTTER     175 

that  was  not  torment,  and  a  recapitulation  of  the 
day's  fun  and  vexations,  of  which  the  first  formed 
the  greater  part,  and  then  yawning  to  bed  and 
sound  sleep  —  always  but  once. 

A  warm  south  wind  blew  a  thick  covering  of 
clouds  over  the  sky,  that  grew  thicker  and  more 
lowering  and  portentous  of  a  long  rain  storm.  The 
threatening  weather  sent  us  to  our  quarters  early, 
for  our  poor  facilities  for  drying  wet  clothes  made 
us  dread  a  wetting.  We  were  scarcely  housed 
before  the  first  drops  fell  in  an  intermittent  pat- 
ter, quickly  increasing  to  a  wind-blown  downpour 
that  made  us  thankful  for  the  sound  roof  over  us. 
From  end  to  end  of  the  eaves  a  broad  cataract  fell 
and  ran  in  a  noisy,  rushing  brook  to  join  another 
larger  one  in  the  highway  ditch. 

I  could  imagine  the  women  of  former  households 
sallying  forth  on  such  occasions  to  put  in  order  the 
always-delayed  corner  barrel  to  catch  water  for  an 
infrequent  washing,  then  scurrying  in  bedraggled 
and  dripping,  while  the  lazy  men  folk  unconcern- 
edly smoked  by  the  greasy  stove. 

One  could  tell  by  the  looks  of  the  place,  though 
so  long  uninhabited,  that  such  was  the  class  of 
its  tenants.  The  marks  of  shiftlessness  and  dis- 
comfort were  indelibly  set  upon  it.  Not  even  a 
stunted  cherry  tree  nor  sprawling  unpruned  cur- 
rant bush  grew  near;  no  dry  stalks  of  chance-sown 
poppy,  pink  or  f our-o'-clock  betokened  the  former 


176     TRAPPING  UP  LITTLE  OTTER 

presence  of  a  posy  bed;  and  what  was  once  by  cour- 
tesy called  a  garden  was  a  waste  of  dry  weed  stalks, 
pitted  with  scars  of  old  potato  hills. 

As  we  peeped  out  across  it  through  the  crannies 
of  the  logs,  we  saw  the  columns  of  scud  sweeping 
across  the  blank  gray  background  from  south  to 
north,  then  change  the  direction  of  their  march  to 
the  east  until  we  heard  the  slanted  drift  of  rain 
beating  against  the  western  gable.  The  air  began 
to  have  a  creeping  chilliness  upon  which  our  smoky 
fire  made  as  little  impression  as  the  glow  of  our 
pipes,  and  it  grew  more  creepy  and  benumbing 
when  the  rain  beat  on  the  northern  slant  of  the  roof 
and  then  subsided  to  the  slushy  splash  of  wet  snow. 
At  last  we  were  driven  to  the  poverty-stricken 
extremity  of  going  to  bed  to  keep  warm,  when  Joe 
declared  that  his  back  "felt  as  if  he  was  list'nin* 
to  a  good  scarey  panther  story  when  the  critter 's 
jest  goin'  to  jump,"  and  I  am  sure  mine  was  as  if 
the  panther  was  in  the  chamber. 

For  awhile  we  dozed  in  a  half -comfortable  state, 
but  the  cold  increased  beyond  the  capacity  of  our 
buffaloes  and  straw  to  ward  off,  while  the  north 
wind  shrieked  with  a  keener  blast  after  every  lull. 
We  spent  the  dreary  night  in  turning  over  and 
over,  giving  one  side  a  chance  to  thaw  a  little 
while  the  other  slowly  froze.  We  needed  no  alarm 
to  get  us  up  in  the  morning,  but  were  up  when  the 
first  level  rays  of  the  sun  shining  from  a  clear  sky 


TRAPPING  UP  LITTLE  OTTER     177 

came  through  the  crevices  of  the  logs.  It  shone 
upon  a  tranquil,  frozen  world.  The  windless  woods 
and  crisp,  dun  herbage,  just  sprinkled  with  snow 
of  the  storm's  finale,  glittered  as  if  set  with  in- 
numerable gems. 

We  crawled  out  into  the  sunlight  and  tried  to 
absorb  some  of  it,  apparently  with  less  success 
than  a  brave  little  song  sparrow  that  sang  his 
cheery  lay  from  the  top  of  a  fence  stake.  We  were 
not  quite  in  the  mood  of  singing,  though  we  man- 
aged to  crack  some  jokes  over  the  night's  misery, 
and  counted  it  a  part  of  the  fun  of  our  trip. 

It  was  dismal  work  going  the  rounds  of  the  traps, 
breaking  ice  to  get  to  some,  resetting  in  the  icy 
water  and  getting  little  for  our  trouble,  as  the 
night's  flood  raised  the  water  beyond  our  ordinary 
calculations. 

A  few  days  later  the  catch  became  so  light  that 
we  decided  to  leave,  and  so  engaging  a  team  to 
transport  our  boats  to  the  head  of  navigation,  we 
bade  farewell  to  our  humble  abode  and  Burton's 
Pond  —  a  long  farewell,  for  I  never  saw  either 
again,  and  both  have  long  since  departed  this 
world.  We  were  probably  the  last  tenants  of  the 
old  house,  which  not  long  after  went  to  the  wood 
pile  and  the  sawmill,  and  when  the  mill  had  de- 
voured all  the  available  woods  in  its  neighborhood 
it  was  abandoned,  the  dam  went  to  ruin  and  the 
pond  ran  away.  Where  it  was  a  little  brook  crawls 


178     TRAPPING  UP  LITTLE  OTTER 

among  new  alder  thickets,  and  if  a  muskrat  dwells 
there,  it  is  only  some  solitary  hermit  who  has 
wandered  far  from  his  fellows  in  search  of  a  safer 
and  quieter  retreat. 

I  have  heard  of  the  place  two  or  three  times 
in  connection  with  enormous  blacksnakes  which 
were  seen  there  by  people  passing  on  the  highway. 
A  friend  of  mine  killed  one  which  measured  eight 
feet  in  length.  I  do  not  know  whether  these 
snakes  were  the  common  water  snake  which  is  fre- 
quent in  all  our  waters,  though  rarely  so  large,  or 
the  blacksnake  common  enough  south  of  us,  but 
almost  unknown  here.  Fortunately  for  our  peace 
of  mind,  Burton's  Pond  had  not  gained  a  snaky 
reputation  at  the  time  of  our  brief  sojourn,  hi 
which  case  it  might  have  been  briefer. 

Getting  our  boats  afloat  at  the  place  of  our  pre- 
vious debarkation,  with  nothing  to  detain  us,  we 
voyaged  merrily  down  the  narrow  stream,  now 
with  newly  turned-out  kine  staring  at  the  strange 
apparition  of  bodiless  human  heads  gliding  past, 
now  disturbing  again  our  old  acquaintances  — 
the  heron,  the  ducks  and  the  woodchucks  —  and 
so  after  a  little  to  the  head  of  the  long  rapids  above 
the  old  forge  of  the  Boston  Company.  Joe  and  I 
ran  our  boat  ashore  without  a  thought  of  running 
the  rapids,  for  though  they  were  smooth  enough 
at  the  head,  white  water  showed  below  and  there 
was  an  ominous  roar  that  threatened  danger.  By 


TRAPPING  UP  LITTLE  OTTER     179 

came  dashing  past,  answering  to  OUT  earnest  re- 
monstrances that  "He'd  risk  it,"  and  shot  into  the 
swift,  smooth  water  like  an  arrow. 

I  watched  him  a  moment,  and  then,  as  he  seemed 
to  be  getting  through  safely,  went  about  setting  a 
mink  trap  in  what  looked  to  be  a  likely  place  in 
the  base  of  a  hollow  tree.  When  not  long  so  en- 
gaged, I  was  startled  by  a  loud  outcry  of  distress, 
"  Rowlan* !  Come  quick !  Come  quick ! "  and  tear- 
ing along  the  bank  at  the  best  pace  my  long  legs 
would  compass,  I  presently  discovered  our  too 
adventurous  comrade  perched  on  top  of  a  big 
boulder  in  the  middle  of  the  roaring  current,  hold- 
ing aloft  hi  one  hand  his  dinner  pail,  in  the  other 
his  precious  bundle  of  furs,  while  just  below  lay 
his  capsized  boat,  jammed  fast  against  a  rock,  and 
gun,  traps,  and  hatchet  somewhere  at  the  bottom. 
Joe  arrived  directly,  and  on  finding  that  our  friend 
was  unhurt  and  no  great  harm  done,  we  could  not 
withhold  a  hearty  laugh  at  the  funny  figure  he 
cut  with  his  carefully  preserved  treasures.  We 
helped  him  ashore  with  them,  and  soon  fished  up 
the  gun,  traps,  and  other  cargo,  but  our  united 
efforts  could  not  budge  the  boat  an  mch,  nor  could 
it  be  done  until  the  creek  had  fallen  considerably. 

As  there  was  no  telling  when  a  team  would  come 
for  boats  and  traps,  we  insured  the  safety  of  the 
latter  by  caching  them  with  a  skill  that  would  do 
no  discredit  to  a  Rocky  Mountain  trapper.  We 


removed  a  circular  sod  and  excavated  the  earth 
to  a  sufficient  depth,  carrying  away  the  loose  dirt 
and  throwing  it  in  the  creek,  so  that  when  the  pit 
was  done  its  precincts  were  as  neat  as  a  chipmunk's 
dooryard.  Then  the  traps  were  closely  packed  in 
it,  the  sod  adjusted  in  its  original  place  so  nicely 
that  nothing  but  the  searchlight  of  a  thunderbolt 
could  have  revealed  what  was  hidden  there. 

I  once  saw  where  a  lightning  stroke  unearthed  a 
log  chain  that  had  lain  buried  at  the  foot  of  a  tree 
for  unknown  years,  the  electric  current  furrowing 
the  turf  and  laying  bare  every  contortion  of  the 
chain  from  end  to  end,  just  as  it  had  been  dropped 
from  some  careless  hand. 

Our  traps  were  buried,  our  trapping  ended,  to 
little  purpose  save  living  very  close  to  Nature  and 
primitive  life,  sometimes  almost  to  the  verge  of 
discomfort,  though  scarcely  counted  so  by  us.  We 
fed  on  the  coarsest  fare  with  the  zest  of  healthy  ap- 
petites, slept  soundly  on  the  rudest  beds,  were  sun- 
tanned and  smoke-tanned  to  the  color  and  odor  of 
Indian-tanned  buckskin,  were  unkempt  and  be- 
grimed to  the  wonder  and  disgust  of  the  good  home 
folk  who  could  not  understand  what  we  could  find 
that  was  pleasant  in  such  a  life.  We  knew,  if  we 
could  not  tell  them. 

Good  souls,  they  never  thought  of  their  an- 
cestors living  far  harder  lives  but  yesterday  in  the 


TRAPPING  UP  LITTLE  OTTER     181 

world's  age,  only  the  hardiest  surviving  and  pre- 
serving the  vigor  to  perpetuate  their  race,  nor 
did  the  good  souls  ever  think  the  race  would  be 
none  the  worse  now  for  a  judicious  infusion  of  old 
leaven  of  rough  living.  Some  wisely  do  so;  some 
foolishly  play  at  it,  because  it  is  the  fashion.  I 
never  could  see  what  good  or  satisfaction  there  i 
can  be  in  camping  out  in  an  elegantly  furnished 
house,  where  you  are  expected  to  dress  for  the 
luxuriously  served  dinner  of  several  courses,  and 
gossip,  lawn  tennis  and  golf  are  the  chief  recrea- 
tions; or  perchance  a  young  lady  catches  a  fish  or 
fires  a  rule  in  the  direction  of  a  target,  she  cele- 
brates the  unique  event  with  a  pretty  squeal. 
There  is  nothing  of  the  wholesomeness  of  true 
camp  life  in  it  all,  none  of  its  freedom  from  con- 
ventionalities, of  the  invention  of  makeshifts,  no 
living  close  to  the  heart  of  nature. 

Well,  there  are  no  more  of  the  happy,  care-free 
days  of  camping  out  for  us  three  comrades  —  one 
sleeping  his  long  sleep  under  the  sumacs  in  the  old 
burying  ground;  one  other  is  a  man  of  affairs,  too 
busy  to  go  camping;  and  the  other  bed-ridden, 
shut  in  from  the  bright  and  beautiful  world  by  a 
wall  of  perpetual  night.  What  wonder  that  he 
loves  to  babble  of  the  days  when  the  joy  of  be- 
holding the  beauty  of  the  world  was  his.  For  him 
is  only  the  inward  sight  to  read  the  pages  of  mem- 
ory whereon  the  record  of  things  seen  long  ago  is 
written  in  the  story  of  youth. 


THE  BOY 

I.   TAKE  THE  BOY 

IT  is  a  hopeful  indication  for  the  future  of  field 
sports  that  in  several  recent  papers  by  sportsmen 
the  boy  accompanies  the  father  in  his  recreations, 
to  the  pleasure  and  advantage  of  both. 

The  graybeard  thrills  with  the  delight  of  long- 
ago  youth  if  his  boy  shows  a  quick  eye  and  wit  and 
a  hand  prompt  to  obey  both.  He  is  as  pleased  and 
proud  as  the  youngster  himself,  if  the  son  gets 
bird,  beast,  or  fish  skillfully  and  honorably.  With 
this  quick  imitator  by  his  side,  he  grows  punctil- 
ious in  observing  every  law  laid  down  by  man  or  by 
nature  concerning  the  game  he  seeks,  that  he  may 
teach  by  his  practice  a  reverence  for  such  laws 
and  an  obedience  to  them.  The  "pocket  pistol," 
too,  is  left  behind,  if  it  ever  before  was  thought  an 
essential  part  of  the  refreshments. 

From  too  great  familiarity,  or  from  the  oppress- 
ing cares  that  added  years  often  lay  upon  the  elder 
(and  that  will  not  stay  behind),  if  unaccompanied 
by  this  quick  observer,  he  would  pass  unnoticed 
many  objects  of  interest  and  beauty  —  here  a  wood 
duck  preened  her  plumage  and  left  a  many-hued 
feather  on  the  log  for  token;  a  water  lily,  late 
blooming,  gleams  under  an  overhanging  water 


THE  BOY  183 

maple;  a  hawk  circles  the  far-off  hilltop;  or  on  a 
yellow  birch  a  vireo  has  swung  her  birch-bark 
basket;  a  fox  has  left  a  chicken's  bone  or  turkey's 
feather  on  the  gray  rock  where  he  feasted  the 
night  before;  a  woodcock  has  twice  bored  the  black 
mud  by  the  wood  road  bridge. 

To  the  boy  such  companionship  brings  number- 
less benefits.  One  of  the  best  is  the  surprised  feel- 
ing swelling  his  breast  and  beaming  in  his  face  of 
the  comradeship  implied. 

He  learns  so  pleasantly  safe  and  legitimate 
methods  of  sportsmanship,  that  he  will  not  forget 
to  practice  them  in  coming  years.  For  him  there 
will  be  no  careless  handling  of  the  gun,  no  fool- 
hardy feat  attempted  on  the  water,  no  fingerlings 
in  his  creel  nor  unlawful  game  in  his  bag. 

He  learns  to  love  the  woods,  as  by  his  father's 
side  he  steals  silently  over  their  sunny  slopes  to 
surprise  a  partridge;  or  as  he  stands  by  him,  with 
finger  on  trigger  and  heart  in  throat,  under  birch 
or  hemlock  in  October  sunshine,  listening  to  the 
nearing  bugles  of  the  hounds.  So,  in  like  manner, 
he  loves  the  grass-bordered  brook,  from  whose 
pools  the  trout  leaps  to  his  father's  skillful  cast, 
and  the  broader  streams,  where  bass  and  salmon 
play.  And  mingled  with  this  love  of  nature  and 
her  healthful  recreations,  there  grows  a  stronger 
filial  affection,  not  likely  to  grow  less  as  the  years 
increase. 


184  THE  BOY 

II.    THE  BOY  AND  THE  GUN 

THE  boy,  bless  his  heart,  is  closer  to  Nature  than 
the  man.  He  is  a  savage  in  civilized  attire;  he  steals 
and  lies  without  a  blush  of  shame,  persecutes  and 
domineers,  and  delights  in  noise  and  destruction, 
and  will  do  and  dare  anything  to  satisfy  his  un- 
tamed cravings.  To  make  an  uproar  and  kill 
something  nothing  quite  so  well  serves  him  as 
gunpowder,  and  for  its  employment  nothing 
serves  him  so  well  as  the  gun. 

Boys  have  grown  particular  of  these  later  years, 
as  have  the  grown-up  savages  on  the  frontier,  and 
must  have  breech-loaders  and  "ca'tridges";  but 
when  we  graybeards  were  boys  any  tube  of  iron 
with  a  lock  and  stock  was  a  prize.  No  matter  how 
it  missed  fire,  kicked  or  scattered,  when  it  did  go 
off  you  felt  it  as  well  as  heard  it,  and  it  would 
sometimes  kill  a  chipmunk  or  a  robin,  and  so 
frighten  a  woodchuck  that  after  one  shotted  salute 
from  it  he  would  keep  his  hole  for  half  a  day.  What 
a  big  Injun  was  the  boy  who  owned  or  had  bor- 
rowed such  a  gun,  and  how  all  the  other  boys 
gathered  about  him  to  watch  the  mysterious  proc- 
ess of  loading.  What  a  wise  fellow  was  this  to 
know  that  he  must  first  put  in  the  powder,  and  how 
much  of  it,  and  on  top  of  it  a  wad  of  tow  or  wasp- 
nest  or  newspaper,  and  then  the  death-dealing 
pellets  of  precious  shot  poured  out  of  a  vial,  and 


THE  BOY  185 

then  more  wadding.  Then  came  the  grand  final 
art  of  priming.  It  was  thrilling  to  see  him  place  a 
G.D.  cap  between  his  teeth  while  he  covered  the 
box  and  returned  it  to  his  pocket,  then  cock  the 
piece  and  put  the  cap  on  the  nipple.  What  if  his 
thumb  should  slip  from  the  striker  as  he  eased  it 
down!  Sometimes  it  did,  and  then  what  a  delight- 
ful scare  if  nothing  worse;  what  shame  for  the 
unskillful  engineer  amid  the  jeers  of  the  envious, 
gunless  crowd. 

But  nowadays,  alas,  almost  any  boy  may  have 
a  gun,  and  only  he  is  enviable  who  has  the  best. 
Well,  if  he  will  only  use  his  dangerous  toy  as  he 
should,  let  him  have  it,  for  the  sporting  instinct  is 
strong  in  the  young  savage.  And  who  for  pure 
love  of  it  is  such  a  naturalist?  Is  it  not  he  who 
notes  the  first  comers  of  spring,  meets  the  chip- 
munk and  the  woodchuck  at  their  thresholds  when 
they  first  come  forth  from  their  winter  sleep;  finds 
the  earliest  birds'  nests,  and  knows  where  the 
squirrels  breed?  The  sportsman  who  enjoys  his 
sport  most  is  he  who  loves  nature  best;  and  who 
of  all  the  guild  enjoys  his  day  with  the  gun  with 
greater  zest  than  the  boy? 

Yes,  let  the  boy  have  his  gun,  a  sound,  well- 
made  one,  but  teach  him  how  to  use  it  —  carefully, 
temperately,  humanely.  Always  as  if  it  were 
loaded,  never  out  of  season,  nor  too  often  in  sea- 
son, and  never  for  mere  love  of  slaughter. 


186  THE  BOY 

III.    THE  BOY  AND  THE  ANGLE 

NOT  solely  for  the  scientific  angler  with  his  eight- 
ounce  rod,  silken  line,  and  flies  cunningly  fashioned 
to  resemble  no  living  thing,  are  all  and  the  chief est 
delights  of  the  gentle  pastime.  There  is  one  of 
humble  estate  in  the  brotherhood  of  the  angle  who 
makes  no  pretensions  to  skill,  and  uses  the  most 
uncouth  and  coarsest  tackle,  to  whom  it  yields 
supremest  enjoyment.  He  never  cast  a  fly,  and 
knows  no  "  green  drake  "  but  him  of  the  duck  pond, 
no  "doctor"  but  the  village  practitioner  who  gives 
him  an  occasional  nauseous  dose,  no  "professor" 
but  the  "deestrict"  schoolmaster,  and  if  he  ever 
heard  of  a  split  bamboo,  thinks  a  split  pole  must 
be  a  poor  stick  to  catch  fish  with.  He  wants  no 
reel  to  wind  hi  his  fish  with,  but  "yanks"  them 
out  and  lands  them  high  and  dry  and  safe  from 
return  to  the  flood,  casting  them  the  length  of 
pole  and  line  behind  him.  This  is,  of  course,  our 
young  and  unsophisticated  friend,  the  boy  of  the 
country,  he  who  remains  a  boy  till  he  has  grown 
big  enough  to  go  a-fishing,  and  perhaps  never  be- 
comes a  young  gentleman,  but  keeps  a  boy's  heart 
within  him,  and  a  boy's  ways  until  he  becomes  a 
man.  He  does  not  always  wear  a  torn  hat,  nor 
always  trousers  in  which  he  feels  most  at  ease  if 
sitting  down  when  big  girls  are  about,  nor  does  he 
always  go  barefoot  from  spring  till  fall,  though  he 


THE  BOY  187 

likes  to  give  his  naked  soles  a  taste  of  the  soil  for  a 
few  days  when  he  has  seen  the  necessary  seventeen 
butterflies. 

Furthermore,  we  do  not  claim  for  him,  nor  does 
he  for  himself ,  that  he  can  catch  more  fish  than 
the  scientific  angler;  but  how  he  loves  to  go  a- 
fishin',  and  how  he  enjoys  it  all,  from  the  prepara- 
tive beginning  to  the  very  end!  What  happiness  is 
his  in  the  cutting  of  the  pole  in  the  always-pleas- 
ant woods,  where  many  a  sapling  is  critically 
scanned  and  many  a  one  laid  low  before  the  right 
and  foreordained  one  is  found;  and  in  the  buying 
of  the  ten-cent  line  and  half  dozen  beautiful  blue 
fish-hooks,  selected  with  much  deliberation  from 
the  tempting  array  in  the  showcase  of  the  country 
store.  How  continually  is  he  full  of  anticipation  of 
sport  from  the  moment  he  begins  digging  his  bait; 
each  big  worm  unearthed  and  going  into  the  leaky 
coffee-pot  promises  a  fish,  and  as  he  hurries  across 
the  fields  to  the  stream  he  cannot  stop  even  to 
look  for  a  bird's  nest,  though  sparrow,  bobolink, 
and  meadow  lark  start  from  almost  at  his  feet. 
Nor  hardly  can  he  halt  to  disentangle  his  hook  and 
line  from  the  fence  or  bush  they  are  seen  to  catch 
in,  for  he  knows  the  fish  are  waiting  for  him.  Then 
out  of  breath  beside  the  stream  he  impales  a  lively 
worm,  spits  on  it,  not  so  much  for  luck  as  in  def- 
erence to  time-honored  usage,  gets  his  line  straight 
out  behind  him,  and  sends  it  with  a  whiz  and  a  re- 


188  THE  BOY 

sounding  "plung!"  of  the  two-ounce  sinker  far 
out  into  the  waters,  and  waits  for  a  bite  with  what 
patience  a  boy  can  muster.  Presently  perhaps  the 
expected  thrill  runs  up  his  angle  to  his  hands  and 
through  all  his  nerves,  the  tip  of  the  pole  nods, 
then  bows  low  to  the  flood,  and  by  no  "turn  of  the 
wrist,"  but  by  main  strength  and  by  one  and  the 
same  motion  he  hooks  his  victim  and  tears  it  from 
its  watery  hold.  So  swiftly  has  it  made  its  curved 
flight  over  his  head,  unseen  but  as  a  dissolving 
streak,  that  he  knows  not  till  he  has  rushed  to 
where  it  is  kicking  the  grass  whether  his  prize  is  a 
green-and-golden-barred  perch,  a  gaudy-mottled 
pumpkin-seed,  a  silvery  shiner  or  an  ugly  but 
toothsome  bullpout,  gritting  his  wide  jaws  when 
his  horns  do  him  no  good,  though  they  may  yet  do 
his  captor  a  mischief. 

Whatever  it  may  be,  he  gloats  over  it  as  much 
as  any  man  over  his  well-fought  trout  or  bass,  and 
straightway  runs  to  cut  a  forked  wand  whereon 
to  string  it,  and  takes  care  that  it  be  long  enough 
to  hold  many  another.  If  the  fish  do  not  bite  he 
sets  his  pole  in  a  crotched  stick  and  lets  it  fish  for 
itself  while  he  explores  the  shore  and  catches  a 
"mud  turcle,"  "almost"  kills  a  "mush  rat"  or 
scares  himself  with  a  big  water  snake. 

Returning  to  his  pole,  perhaps  he  finds  the 
tip  under  water  and  tugs  out  a  writhing  eel,  the 
wild  fun  and  horror,  and  the  abominable,  all- 


THE  BOY  189 

pervading  sliminess  of  whose  final  capture  makes 
memorable  the  hour  and  the  day  thereof.  Perhaps 
a  hungry  and  not  too  fastidious  pickerel  or  pike- 
perch  or  bass  may  gorge  the  worm-indued  hook 
and  be  hauled  ashore,  and  then  the  measure  of  the 
boy's  glory  is  filled  and  the  capacity  of  his  trousers 
to  contain  him  tried  to  the  utmost. 

Though  he  goes  home  with  a  beggarly  account 
of  small  fry  dangling  at  the  end  of  his  withe,  he  is 
unabashed,  if  not  proud,  and  hopeful  for  another 
day.  But  if  it  is  strung  so  full  that  his  arms  ache 
with  lugging  it,  what  pride  fills  his  heart  as  he  dis- 
plays his  fish !  Till  they  are  eaten  and  digested  he 
ceases  to  be  a  "no-account  boy."  He  cleans  them 
and  enjoys  it.  Every  scale  is  a  cent,  bright  from 
the  mint,  and  he  catches  each  fish  over  again  as 
he  takes  it  up.  He  recognizes  his  worms  in  their 
maws.  When  they  are  cooked,  whoever  tasted 
fish  so  good? 

The  boy  is  no  more  a  contemplative  angler  than 
he  is  a  gentle  one,  and  he  does  not  of  choice  go 
fishing  alone.  He  would  rather  go  with  the  re- 
nowned old  fisherman  of  the  neighborhood  and 
learn  something  of  the  mysteries  of  his  art,  but 
that  worthy  does  not  overmuch  desire  the  com- 
panionship of  youthful  anglers.  So  perforce  the 
young  fisherman  goes  with  another  boy  and  has 
some  one  to  "holler"  to,  compare  notes  with, 
and  enter  into  rivalry  with,  and  he  can  say  with 


190  THE  BOY 

truth,  when  he  gets  home,  "Me  and  Jim  ketched 
twenty ! "  though  he  forgets  to  add  that  Jim  caught 
nineteen  of  them.  Wherefore  not?  Do  not  his 
biggers  and  betters  brag  of  scores  which  would  not 
have  been  made  if  their  guides  and  oarsmen  had 
not  fished? 

Alack,  for  the  bygone  days !  When  May  comes 
with  south  winds  and  soft  skies  and  the  green 
fields  are  dotted  with  the  gold  of  dandelions  and 
patched  with  the  blue  of  violets,  and  the  bobo- 
links are  riotous  with  song  over  them,  who  would 
not  be  a  boy  again  just  for  one  day  to  go  a-fishing? 


THE  COUNTRY  DOCTOR1 

OUT  at  all  hours  of  day  and  night,  pelted  by  storms 
of  rain  and  storms  of  snow,  chilled  by  bitter  cold 
of  winter  and  scorched  by  downright  beams  of  the 
summer  sun,  our  country  doctor  leads  a  hard  and 
wearing  life.  He  rides  over  roads  now  heavy  with 
mire,  now  blocked  with  snow,  now  choking  with 
dust.  With  body  so  overworked  and  mind  per- 
plexed by  difficult  cases  and  the  worry  of  un- 
reasoning and  exacting  patients,  it  is  a  wonder  how 
he  preserves  health  and  strength  without  his  own 
physic,  or  maintains  a  cheerful  spirit,  yet  he  does 
both. 

In  an  obscure  corner  of  his  office  you  may  dis- 
cover a  gun,  a  rod  and  a  box  of  fishing  tackle, 
none  too  carefully  kept,  yet  all  serviceable  and 
ready  for  use  in  their  season;  and  these  constitute 
his  private  medicine  chest,  with  judicious  draughts 
wherefrom  he  preserves  the  health  and  vigor  of 
body  and  mind. 

Sometimes  when  you  meet  him  on  his  way  to 
visit  a  distant  patient  of  the  continually  ailing  sort, 
the  gun  shares  with  him  the  narrow  seat  of  the 
sulky,  unskillfully  masked  under  a  blanket,  or  the 
red  case  rests  between  his  knees,  and  you  guess  his 
1  Dr.  Willard  of  Yergennes. 


192          THE  COUNTRY  DOCTOR 

intention  of  stealing  an  hour's  shooting  in  some 
patch  of  roadside  woods,  or  as  much  fishing  in  the 
stream  that  intersects  his  route.  The  entire  days  of 
such  recreation  that  fall  to  his  lot,  lie  far  apart  in 
the  year. 

It  often  happens  when  a  day  of  freedom  has  ap- 
parently come,  it  slips  away  from  him  into  the  un- 
certainties of  the  future.  Shells  are  loaded  over 
night,  the  gun  cleaned  and  oiled,  or  the  rod  put  in 
order,  tackle  overhauled,  flies  arranged  or  bait 
secured.  He  falls  asleep  with  a  prayer  for  an 
auspicious  morrow,  to  dream  pleasant  dreams  of 
frost  -painted  woodlands  or  waters  rippled  by  the 
south  wind's  breath  and  shadowless  beneath  a 
clouded  sky.  The  slow  dawn  brings  an  answer  to 
his  prayer,  and  his  dreams  seem  about  to  material- 
ize into  tangible  realities.  His  horse  is  at  the  door, 
his  gun  or  rod  in  hand,  his  heart  is  light  with 
the  thought  of  throwing  physic  to  the  dogs  for  a 
day,  when  in  rushes  a  messenger  with  an  urgent 
call  to  some  serious  case. 

In  an  instant  the  promised  day  of  recreation  is 
changed  to  one  of  wearing  toil  and  anxiety.  He 
meets  the  disappointment  with  a  cheerful  face 
and  takes  up  the  scarcely  dropped  burden  of  care 
without  a  murmur.  Indeed  he  has  grown  so  ac- 
customed to  such  miscarriage  of  his  plans  that  he 
is  least  disappointed  when  most  so,  and  hope 
deferred  does  not  make  his  stout  heart  sick. 


THE  COUNTRY  DOCTOR  193 

He  comes  home  weary  and  worn  at  night,  but 
drops  in  at  the  shoemaker's  and  refreshes  himself 
with  a  half  hour's  chat  of  reminiscent  or  pro- 
spective shooting  or  fishing.  He  finds  the  musty 
atmosphere  of  the  cobbler's  den  congenial,  and  his 
visits  are  so  frequent  that  the  neighbors  have 
ceased  to  ask  him  if  the  shoemaker  is  ailing.  The 
mending  of  bodies  and  the  mending  of  soles,  not- 
withstanding their  dissimilarity,  seems  to  bring 
the  practitioners  of  the  two  arts  into  an  affinity 
which  leads  both  to  field  sports  and  scientific  pur- 
suits more  than  any  other  professors  and  crafts- 
men. 

When  at  last  a  day  arrives  that  leaves  the  doctor 
free  to  practice  the  lighter  arts  of  recreation,  with 
what  zest  for  them  and  entire  abandonment  of 
weightier  duties  he  enters  upon  them.  The  facul- 
ties sharpened  in  his  regular  profession  are  keen  in 
the  pursuit  of  these,  and  sensitive  to  every  touch 
of  nature.  He  enjoys  to  the  utmost  her  beauties, 
discovers  her  secrets,  and  acquaints  himself  with 
the  lives  of  her  children,  the  wood  folk  and  water 
folk  whom  he  loves,  that  have  grown  dearer 
through  continual  longing  and  rare  opportunity. 

Far  apart  in  the  years  of  his  professional  life  he 
breaks  the  links  of  the  lengthening  chain,  and  es- 
capes into  the  great  woods  beyond  the  recall  by 
night-bell,  messenger,  or  telegram.  His  comrades 
tell  how  he  revels  in  his  brief  season  of  liberty, 


194         THE  COUNTRY  DOCTOR 

when  he  is  the  life  of  the  party,  the  ready  deviser 
of  expedients,  the  inventor  of  camp  conveniences, 
the  closest  observer  of  nature,  the  keenest  and  yet 
the  gentlest  of  sportsmen. 

He  is  the  better  doctor  for  being  a  good  sports- 
man, and  his  patients  have  no  cause  to  blame  him 
for  deserting  them,  for  he  brings  back  to  their  serv- 
ice a  clearer  brain,  firmer  nerves,  and  a  stronger 
body. 


PORTRAITS  IN  INK 

I.    THE  FARMER 

A  FARMER  finds  his  best  recreation  in  the  woods 
and  waters,  with  gun  and  rod,  in  the  few  respites 
that  are  given  him  from  the  toil  whereby  he  con- 
quers a  livelihood  from  the  soil. 

There  is  a  break  in  the  dull  round  of  labor  when 
planting  is  done  and  hoeing  time  not  yet  come, 
when  he  goes  a-fishing  after  his  own  fashion,  and 
he  deems  the  day  the  less  ill  spent  if  he  bring  home 
a  catch  that  serves  to  break  the  monotonous  fare 
of  a  farmer's  table.  Then  there  are  days  in  haying 
when  he  follows  the  time-honored  advice,  "When 
it  rains  too  hard  to  work,  go  a-fishing,"  for  he  can- 
not choose  his  days,  only  make  the  most  of  such  as 
come  to  him.  The  day  laborers  that  he  hires  have 
a  freer  choice  than  he,  between  work  and  pastime, 
and  while  he  toils  in  the  sun,  he  sees  the  gentleman 
angler  and  the  market-fisherman  plying  their  rods 
on  his  own  stream,  and  hears  the  guns  untimely 
thinning  the  broods  of  woodcock  in  his  own  alder 
copses. 

Of  a  summer  Sunday  he  strolls  out  to  the  wood- 
side  pasture  and  watches  a  fox  and  her  cubs  at 
play  about  the  threshold  of  their  underground 
home,  or  if  he  fears  the  raid  of  some  bounty- 


196  PORTRAITS  IN  INK 

hunter  or  vengeful  poultry  breeder,  he  gives  the 
vixen  an  unmistakable  hint  to  move  to  safer  quar- 
ters. If  her  Thanksgiving  antedates  his  by  two 
months  or  more,  he  overlooks  the  mistake  in  the 
calendar  and  forgives  the  venal  sin  for  the  sake 
of  future  sport  and  possible  expiation  in  the  days 
of  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf,  days  that  shall  bring 
more  leisure  to  himself  and  freedom  to  the  old 
hound,  now  yawning  and  whining  in  the  leash  at 
home. 

When  haying  and  harvesting  are  over,  he  robs 
less  exacting  labor  of  an  occasional  day  to  prowl 
along  a  willowy  stream  beloved  of  wood  duck  or 
to  crawl  in  the  sedgy  borders  of  the  haunts  of 
dusky  duck  and  teal,  or  he  makes  his  stealthy  way 
in  the  constant  shade  of  wood  roads  and  forest 
by-paths  and  ferny  margins  of  the  woods,  where 
the  yet  unbroken  flocks  of  grouse  are  likely  to 
be,  and  if  he  stalks  two  or  three  wary  birds  and 
brings  them  to  pocket  from  tree  or  ground,  or  from 
the  air  by  rare  chance,  or  gets  one  raking  shot  at  a 
logful  of  sleeping  wood  ducks,  or  into  a  huddle  of 
shy  duskies,  or  a  passing  flock  of  swift-winged  teal, 
he  counts  it  a  good  day's  sport,  with  tangible  and 
sufficient  proof  thereof.  But  if  he  has  none  of  the 
rewards,  the  fatigues  of  the  day  are  rest  from  toil 
and  care,  and  so  not  unrequited. 

In  the  later  days  of  the  year,  when  woods  are  in 
the  fading  gray  of  autumn,  or  winter  has  overlaid 


PORTRAITS  IN  INK  197 

the  russet  with  white,  he  ranges  upland  and  low- 
land with  hound  and  gun,  hunting  foxes,  matching 
his  knowledge  against  their  cunning,  and  he  is 
thankful  to  be  the  winner,  but  not  cast  down  if 
he  is  the  loser  in  the  game.  If  he  kills  the  fox,  he 
thriftily  saves  the  skin,  and  prizes  it  the  more  if  it 
is  prime  and  marketable. 

He  is  friendly  and  generous  to  sportsmen  who 
meet  him  in  a  like  spirit,  but  not  over-hospitable 
to  such  who  only  make  a  convenience  of  him,  his 
home  and  hunting  grounds.  The  first  sportsman 
in  the  land  does  not  observe  close  seasons  more  re- 
ligiously than  this  jealous  guardian  of  nesting  and 
immature  birds,  of  fox  cubs  and  all  young  fur- 
bearers,  yet  he  will  not  be  converted  to  the  belief 
that  it  is  unsportsmanlike  or  unfair,  in  proper 
season,  to  shoot  a  fox  before  hounds,  or  stalk  a 
sitting  grouse,  or  catch  a  trout  with  a  worm,  all 
of  which  he  does,  not  only  without  compunction 
but  with  absolute  satisfaction. 

He  is  a  close  and  intelligent  observer  of  nature, 
and  freely  imparts  to  congenial  listeners  what  he 
learns  of  her  secrets;  but  concerning  his  love  of  her 
he  is  as  reticent  as  of  the  love  of  his  sweetheart. 
For  all  expression  in  words,  you  would  imagine 
that  her  infinitude  of  beauties  are  displayed  in 
vain  to  him  in  all  moods  and  seasons,  yet  his  tell- 
tale face  informs  you  how  they  satisfy  his  soul 
and  fill  his  heart  with  unwritten,  wordless  poetry. 


198  PORTRAITS  IN  INK 

II.   THE  TRAPPER 

BILL,  the  trapper,  is  a  figure  so  out  of  place  in  the 
midst  of  the  civilization  that  has  swept  away  for- 
ests and  game,  that  you  almost  wonder  if  he  is  not 
an  Indian  who  happened  to  be  born  with  a  white 
skin,  fair  hair  and  blue  eyes,  or  a  pioneer  hunter 
who  drank  at  the  fountain  of  youth  in  middle  age 
and  so  has  been  preserved  since  the  old  wild  days 
when  the  unmeasured  wilderness  stretched  out  into 
unknown  lands  and  sheltered  countless  game.  He 
has  many  of  their  traits,  many  of  the  qualifications 
that  would  fit  him  to  live  their  lives  amid  their  be- 
fitting surroundings;  and  is  as  out  of  place  as  they 
would  be  in  this  latter-day  tameness  of  men  and 
nature. 

His  tall,  spare  form,  full  of  inert  vigor  and 
strength,  clad  in  garments  that  befit  his  calling 
and  that  bear  odorous  witness  of  it,  shacking 
leisurely  among  restless,  busy  men,  on  whose  in- 
cessant bustle  he  casts  wondering  eyes  alert 
through  all  their  dreaminess,  is  as  incongruous 
here  as  would  be  a  becurled  dandy  in  the  heart  of 
the  wilderness. 

He  has  that  instinct,  or  sixth  sense,  possessed  by 
few  except  Indians  and  dumb  animals,  which  en- 
ables him  to  make  his  way  to  any  desired  point 
without  any  apparent  guidance,  though,  save  of 
dark  night,  he  has  little  use  for  it  in  these  narrow 


PORTRAITS  IN  INK  199 

and  many  pathed  woodlands.  He  treads  their 
rustling  carpet  as  silently  as  a  panther,  the  sere 
leaves  do  not  stir,  nor  the  dry  twigs  snap  beneath 
his  feet  and  the  bent  boughs  sway  to  their  places 
behind  him  without  a  sound.  You  are  not  aware  of 
his  coming  till  he  appears  before  you  like  an  ap- 
parition, nor  of  his  going  but  as  you  watch  him 
like  one  dissolving  in  the  shadows  of  the  woods. 

His  casual  glances  discover  things  which  are  not 
revealed  to  directed  gaze,  and  he  translates  rec- 
ords that  you  cannot  read.  Where  you  see  only  a 
knot  or  wisp  of  brown  leaves,  he  discovers  the  bird 
under  the  grouse's  disguise  of  movelessness;  on 
what  is  to  you  only  a  blank  page,  he  reads  the 
story  of  some  remote  or  recent  presence  or  pas- 
sage. 

He  knows  every  kind  of  tree  and  its  varieties, 
all  the  medicinal  and  poisonous  plants  by  odd  and 
homely  names  that  often  have  a  tang  of  folk  lore 
or  hint  of  forgotten  use;  and  it  is  as  instructive  as 
a  professor's  discourse  on  natural  history  to  hear 
him  talk  of  the  habits  of  wild  things,  for  all  his 
quaint  superstitions  concern  some  of  them.  You 
could  find  no  arguments  to  shake  his  firm  belief 
that  eels  are  generated  in  mussels  or  that  skunks 
have  power  to  absorb  their  own  spent  effluence,  nor 
do  you  care  to. 

He  would  not  kill  a  nesting  partridge  or  trap  an 
unprime  fur-bearer,  yet  he  holds  all  legislative 


200  PORTRAITS  IN  INK 

protection  of  game  and  fish  to  be  an  infringement 
on  his  rights,  and  is  as  cunning  as  a  fox  in  persist- 
ent violation  of  all  such  statutes.  All  wild  things 
are  his  by  natural  inheritance,  and  what  does  a 
week  or  month  matter,  and  whose  affair  is  it  if  he 
desires  fish,  flesh,  or  fowl  to-day? 

He  is  somewhat  conceited  and  boastful  and  en- 
vious of  another's  renown  in  his  craft,  to  be  fore- 
most in  which  is  his  highest  ambition.  You  confess 
it  is  a  poor  ambition  to  be  most  skillful  in  a  trade 
that  is  obsolete  and  unrequited.  With  a  slightly 
different  bent,  with  one  omitted  trait,  he  would 
have  had  a  higher  aim  and  have  been  an  Audubon 
or  Thoreau,  performing  useful  if  ill-paid  work, 
making  a  name  honorably  remembered. 

As  he  is  what  he  is,  he  slouches  into  old  age  and 
down  to  his  last  sod-roofed  shanty,  a  shiftless,  lazy, 
good-natured,  disreputable  old  trapper,  hunter 
and  fisherman,  and  only  by  a  few  will  he  be  kindly 
and  briefly  remembered. 

Yet  as  you  see  him  stealing  through  the  second 
growth  woods,  tame  and  puny  successors  of  the 
wild,  majestic  forests,  or  plying  the  noiseless  pad- 
dle of  his  skiff  in  the  nakedness  of  a  shrunken 
stream,  he  is  so  like  a  lingering  spirit  of  the  old 
days  that  you  are  thankful  for  the  picturesque 
figure  which  gives  one  touch  of  remote  half-savage 
past  to  the  commonplace  present. 


PORTRAITS  IN  INK  201 

III.    THE  SHOEMAKER 

THE  old  shoemaker,  grizzled,  unkempt,  slovenly 
clad,  warped  with  many  years  over  last  and  lap- 
stone,  is  a  cheerful  philosopher  as  he  labors  or 
meditates  in  his  untidy  shop. 

There  among  the  clutter  of  leather  scraps,  worn 
footgear  and  lasts,  with  the  battered  old  gun  in 
the  corner  beside  the  worn  rod  whose  term  of 
service  is  still  extended  by  many  bonds  of  waxed 
ends,  you  may  sit  at  your  ease  or  your  peril  on 
the  rough  little  counter  or  on  one  of  the  hah*  dozen 
rickety  chairs,  weak  but  hospitable  even  in  the 
decrepitude  of  age.  You  will  find  genial  compan- 
ionship and  get  more  useful  information  in  an 
hour  spent  with  this  unassuming  craftsman  than 
in  a  day  with  more  pretentious  sportsmen. 

It  is  not  altogether  greed  for  fish  and  game  that 
entices  him  abroad  in  the  few  days  wherein  are 
conjoined  an  allurement  of  propitious  weather 
and  slackness  of  work.  He  admits  with  a  laugh  at 
himself,  that  he  killed  nothing  in  his  last  day's 
outing,  but  asserts  that  he  had  nevertheless  a 
right  good  time.  He  got  a  fortnight's  kinks  out 
of  his  back  and  shoulders,  a  heartening  smell  of  the 
woods,  a  feast  of  fresh  air,  and  caught  some  of  the 
wood  folk  at  a  new  trick  or  uttering  a  heretofore 
unheard  or  unrecognized  note,  or  he  has  seen  some 
strange  freak  of  nature.  If  you  are  interested,  he 


202  PORTRAITS  IN  INK 

imparts  to  you  his  small  discoveries,  a  poor  but 
hospitable  host  sharing  his  meager  fare  with  a 
hungry  wayfarer. 

You  may  find  him  just  returned  from  a  stolen 
half-day's  excursion,  rejoicing  over  a  lucky  shot, 
never  claiming  it  to  be  more,  and  he  relates  with 
the  particulars  of  circumstance  and  place,  the 
finding  of  his  grouse  and  how  he  brought  it  down, 
as  it  whirred  and  clattered  almost  unseen  in  the 
haze  of  brush.  When  you  desire  a  sight  of  the 
finest  bird  he  ever  killed,  he  bashfully  confesses 
that  he  left  it  at  a  sick  neighbor's  on  his  way  home 
(a  mile  out  of  it  though),  but  as  he  knew  the  sick 
man  would  not  care  he  stuck  one  of  the  tail  feathers 
in  his  hat,  and  this  he  displays  with  great  satis- 
faction. He  sticks  it  up  on  the  wall  beside  the 
dried  head  of  a  big  bass  and  the  plumy  tail  of  a 
gray  squirrel,  and  you  know  by  the  far-away  look 
in  his  eyes  that  it  will  need  but  a  glance  at  these 
when  the  days  of  toil  are  long  unbroken  to  conjure 
up  the  pleasant,  restful  loneliness  of  the  woods,  the 
glint  of  clear  waters  and  the  music  of  their  voices. 

He  does  not  consort  much  with  men  in  his  out- 
ings, but  of  choice  with  boys,  whom  he  delights  to 
instruct  in  woodcraft  and  the  mysteries  of  the 
gentle  art.  He  baits  the  small  boys'  hooks  with 
infinite  care  and  unhooks  the  horned  pouts  and 
thorny-backed  perch  for  them,  untangles  lines 
and  recovers  snagged  hooks  for  them;  he  mends  the 


PORTRAITS  IN  INK  203 

big  boys,  tackle,  is  uncle  to  them  all  and  rejoices  in 
their  luck  as  if  it  were  his  own. 

As  you  listen  to  his  kindly  and  interested  dis- 
course concerning  the  wild  world  and  its  sports 
that  he  so  unaffectedly  loves,  and  look  at  the 
homely,  genial  face  in  setting  of  grizzled  hair  and 
beard,  beaming  with  genuine  enthusiasm,  you 
realize  that  it  needs  something  more  than  learned 
talk  of  high-bred  dogs,  fine  guns  and  fancy  tackle, 
or  the  possession  of  them,  to  make  a  true  sports- 
man, for  here  is  one  in  patched  raiment  and  leather 
apron,  who  scarcely  knows  a  pointer  from  a  setter, 
nor  ever  owned  a  high-priced  gun  or  rod,  and  yet 
is  a  true  sportsman  in  the  best  sense  of  that 
abused  title,  for  he  is  an  ardent  lover  of  honest 
sport,  appreciating  something  in  its  achievements 
beyond  skillful  slaughter  and  the  making  of  heavy 
scores.  Is  it  not  a  privilege  to  have  the  confidence 
of  this  honest  man  and  to  associate  with  this  sim- 
ple and  enthusiastic  lover  of  nature? 

IV.    THE  ANTICIPATOR 

IF  all  sportsmen  were  like  our  harmless  friend, 
game  might  live  a  quiet  life  and  die  of  old  age, 
while  its  human  enemies  were  getting  ready  for  a 
campaign  against  it. 

Even  though  it  makes  you  impatient,  you  can- 
not help  being  amused  by  the  fuss  of  his  constant 
preparation,  nor  fail  to  be  warmed  by  his  steady 


204  PORTRAITS  IN  INK 

enthusiasm  that  burns  on  and  on  like  a  slow- 
match,  which  never  fires  the  mine  of  action. 

What  careful  selection  of  guns,  what  labor  of 
tinkering  and  cleaning  them,  what  cautious  pur- 
chasing of  a  new  one  and  endless  testing  of  its 
qualities,  what  thoughtful  study  of  ammunition 
and  close  measurement  of  charges,  what  nice  ad- 
justment of  all  appurtenances  go  on  while  the 
season  draws  near,  endures  and  is  gone. 

Then  at  once  with  unabated  zeal  he  begins 
planning  for  the  next,  and  refurnishing  his  equip- 
ments, targeting  his  guns,  wearing  them  out  with 
innocuous  use.  So  his  year  passes  hi  a  round  of 
pleasant  anticipation  and  free  of  vain  regret. 

Once  in  its  course,  perhaps,  he  is  betrayed  into 
going  shooting  while  yet  unready.  Your  report  of 
the  abundance  of  squirrels,  his  favorite  game,  in 
your  neighborhood,  gets  the  prompt  response  of  a 
promise  to  come  in  a  day  or  two  for  a  raid  on  them. 
During  the  week  or  a  fortnight  that  await  its  ful- 
fillment the  woods  are  overrun  by  a  horde  of  gun- 
ners, and  every  squirrel  is  killed  or  made  alive  to 
its  own  safety. 

At  last,  late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  last  day, 
your  friend  arrives  with  a  wagon  load  of  guns  and 
equipments,  whereof  nine  tenths  are  quite  un- 
necessary. When  he  has  made  a  studious  selection 
from  his  embarrassment  of  riches,  you  go  forth 
with  him  hi  the  propitious  last  hour  of  sunlight. 


PORTRAITS  IN  INK  205 

You  are  so  fortunate  as  to  accomplish  stealthy 
approach  to  a  squirrel  that,  unconscious  of  danger, 
sits  rasping  a  nut  on  a  hickory  branch,  and  as  a 
courteous  host  should,  you  signal  your  guest  to 
take  the  easy  shot. 

Slowly  unlimbering  his  gun  from  under  his  arm, 
while  he  calculates  the  distance,  he  cautiously 
raises  the  weapon  to  its  deadly  aim.  You  hold 
your  breath  hi  expectancy  breathless;  but  if  you 
held  it  till  he  fired,  you  would  have  no  further  use 
for  it. 

A  busy  spider  runs  out  to  the  steadfast  muzzle 
and  cables  it  to  the  ground  with  a  silver  thread. 
The  squirrel  turns  his  nut,  hah*  eaten,  to  begin  on 
the  other  side,  and  suddenly  becomes  aware  of 
enemies.  Down  drops  the  nut  with  raspings  of 
shuck  and  shell,  and  up  goes  the  squirrel  behind 
the  sheltering  trunk,  then  out  upon  the  further 
branches,  and  so  goes  plunging  and  scampering 
through  upper  byways  in  swift  retreat  to  the  heart 
of  the  woods. 

Without  lowering  his  gun,  the  dilatory  marks- 
man turns  an  almost  triumphant  face  toward  you, 
as  who  should  say,  "  If  he  had  not  moved  his  fate 
was  sealed." 

He  never  risks  a  shot  at  running  or  flying  game. 
You  would  as  soon  think  of  an  oyster  snatching 
its  prey  as  of  him  shooting  on  the  wing.  If  his 
game  will  not  wait,  it  may  go  unscathed. 


206  PORTRAITS  IN  INK 

When  the  delayed  opportunity  arrives,  he  is  as 
little  exalted  by  success  as  cast  down  by  failure, 
and  calmly  accepts  good  fortune  with  quiet  thank- 
fulness. 

Whether  he  bears  home  a  light  or  heavy  bag,  he 
seems  never  to  be  weighted  with  the  burden  of 
disappointment  nor  to  be  troubled  with  jealousy, 
while  you  can  but  envy  his  constant  pleasure  of 
anticipation,  his  sure  enjoyment  of  participation. 

Happy  old  man,  long  may  he  potter  in  endless 
preparation,  long  continue  his  meandering  in  the 
woods,  a  rarely  harmful  foe  to  all  their  denizens. 

V.   A  PROFESSOR  OF  FISHING 

WHENEVER  you  may  chance  to  visit  his  haunts,  in 
almost  all  weathers  and  seasons,  you  are  likely 
to  meet  the  old  fisherman,  wearing  dilapidated 
clothes  and  bearing  unconventional  equipments. 
Robins  are  not  yet  mating,  nor  the  plovers  call- 
ing in  the  tawny  grass  lands,  before  he  is  stealing 
along  the  brimming  trout  brooks,  or  is  discovered 
on  the  flood-invaded  river  bank,  in  sun  and  shower 
and  flurry  of  sugar-snow,  so  silent  and  so  seldom 
moving,  that  the  uninterrupted  purr  of  the  frogs 
arises  from  the  drift  of  dead  water-weeds  close  be- 
side him,  and  the  turtles  bask  undisturbed  on  the 
nearest  log,  the  muskrat  swims  beneath  the  stead- 
fast slant  of  his  pole,  and  the  wild  duck  whistles 
past  him  in  unerring  flight. 


PORTRAITS  IN  INK  207 

He  is  alert  for  the  first  sharp-set  trout  and 
tempts  the  hungry  perch  and  bullhead  with  the 
earliest  worm.  No  flies  are  looped  about  his 
shapeless,  battered  hat,  no  fly-book  hi  his  pocket, 
for  he  scorns  all  such  gimcracks  as  he  does  reel  and 
jointed  rod. 

A  pole  that  only  nature  has  had  a  hand  in  mak- 
ing, save  in  trimming,  is  good  enough  for  him,  and 
so  is  an  honest  bait  that  in  no  wise  deceives  but  hi 
concealing  a  hook. 

Only  when  it  comes  to  trolling  has  he  departed 
from  the  ancient  usage  of  pork  rind  and  red  flannel 
and  become  a  late  convert  to  modern  metallic 
lures. 

All  day  long,  with  the  stout  line  held  in  his 
teeth,  he  trails  the  fluttering  spoon  along  marshy 
margins  and  rocky  shores,  impelling  his  craft  with 
slow  oars  or  dextrous  paddle,  lazily  laborious, 
always  expectant,  never  excited  by  good  luck,  nor 
ever  cast  down  by  bad. 

He  fishes  solely  for  fish,  never  for  sport.  In 
spearing  and  netting  suckers  when  they  come  up 
stream  to  spawn  and  in  hauling  his  seine  when 
the  law  allows  it,  he  has  as  much  sport  as  in  an- 
gling. If  the  pickerel,  perch,  and  smelt  bite  well, 
he  apparently  enjoys  ice-fishing,  with  its  cold  and 
desolate  environment,  quite  as  much  as  casting 
his  bait  in  open  waters  under  softer  skies. 

He  wastes  no  time  on  the  fine  arts  of  the  craft, 


208  PORTRAITS  IN  INK 

but  brings  each  fast-hooked  fish  to  boat  or  grass 
with  short  shrift,  whether  it  be  plebeian  pickerel, 
eel,  and  pout,  or  patrician  trout  and  bass. 

Despise  him  not  in  the  day  of  small  things,  for 
out  of  the  abundance  of  his  store  many  a  light  creel 
has  become  heavy,  and  blank  scores  been  made 
reputable,  to  the  credit  of  rods  and  flies  quite  in- 
nocent of  piscine  blood.  Also,  it  is  well  to  remem- 
ber that  if  he  is  somewhat  greedy,  there  are  those 
no  less  so,  who  profess  to  be  truer  anglers  than  he. 

If  he  is  touched  by  the  fine  and  subtle  influences 
of  nature,  if  he  rejoices  hi  the  gladness  of  the  birds, 
the  beauty  of  the  flowers,  the  greenness  of  woods 
and  fields,  the  babble  of  waters,  the  glory  of  dawn 
and  sunset,  he  makes  no  sign.  Yet  he  is  a  close  ob- 
server of  what  concerns  his  business,  wise  in  the 
manners  and  moods  of  fishes,  and  whoever  studies 
nature  in  any  of  her  ways  must  in  some  sort  be  her 
lover. 

He  has  the  quamtness  and  originality  that 
flavor  men  who  live  much  by  themselves  and  think 
their  own  thoughts,  and  if  you  approach  him  with- 
out assumption  of  superiority,  you  will  find  him 
an  entertaining  and  profitable  companion. 


SMALL  SHOT 

i.  SOME  POOR  MEN'S  RICHES 

THERE  are  many  who  have  inherited  the  hunting 
instinct  and  were  born  too  late  to  find  game  enough 
in  the  region  of  their  birth  to  make  hunting  worth 
while  for  the  game  that  can  be  got  by  the  most 
persistent  seeking,  and  who  have  not  inherited 
wealth,  nor  the  faculty  of  acquiring  it,  so  that  they 
may  go  for  a  week,  month,  or  year,  to  places  where 
game  is  still  abundant.  Some  of  these  sometimes 
wonder  whether  this  inheritance,  come  down  to 
them  through  a  thousand  generations  from  wild 
ancestors,  is  not  under  such  conditions  an  entailed 
ill-fortune,  a  wholesome  desire,  given  without  the 
opportunity  of  satisfying  it,  a  purse  of  gold  that 
one  must  always  carry  but  never  spend. 

Most  assuredly  it  is  an  unprofitable  dower  if  it 
leads  one  to  too  continual  pursuit  of  what  at  best 
he  can  get  but  little  of,  mere  game.  But  if  it  takes 
him  to  the  woods  and  fields  for  that  reasonable 
share  of  recreation  which  belongs  of  right  to  all, 
rather  than  to  questionable  pastimes  among  ill- 
assorted  associates,  then  it  is  something  to  be 
thankful  for.  With  a  gun  to  excuse  his  day's  out- 
ing he  goes  forth.  His  wits  are  sharpened  to  find 
the  haunts  of  the  infrequent  woodcock  or  quail  or 


210  SMALL  SHOT 

grouse,  that  should  rightfully  be  in  the  swamp,  or 
field,  or  copse  that  of  old  their  tribes  possessed. 
All  these  places  he  must  search,  and  study  how 
changed  conditions  have  wrought  changes  in  the 
habits  of  the  few  survivors.  The  wits  of  these,  too, 
are  sharpened.  The  woodcock  does  not  wait  till 
the  dog's  nose  is  almost  above  him  before  he  springs 
up  with  a  twittering  whistle,  but  flushes  wild,  and 
alights  afar  off.  The  scant  bevy  of  quail  goes  off 
out  of  gunshot  in  a  gray  flurry  to  the  mazes  of  the 
woods.  The  ruffed  grouse  tarries  not  to  cry  "quit! 
quit ! "  nor  strut  along  the  dim  aisles  of  his  wood- 
land sanctuary,  but  hurtles  away  unseen,  almost 
out  of  ear  shot.  If  by  good  luck  one  of  these  falls 
to  the  unaccustomed  aim,  if  a  woodcock  tumbles 
in  a  shower  of  leaves  to  the  ferny  carpet  of  the 
swamp,  if  a  quail  drops  to  the  earth  out  of  a  whiff  of 
feathers,  if  a  grouse  slants  from  his  arrowy  flight 
and  strikes  with  a  fluttering  thud  upon  the  fallen 
leaves,  or  a  woodduck,  started  from  a  willowy  bend 
of  the  river,  splashes  back  into  it  before  the  powder 
smoke  has  unveiled  him,  the  heart  is  warmed  with 
a  thrill  of  the  satisfaction  of  well-doing. 

Without  even  this  appeasing  of  the  sportsman's 
gentle  bloodthirst,  there  is  more  and  better  to  be 
got  of  a  day's  wandering  with  the  helping  bur- 
den of  a  gun.  The  companionship  of  Nature,  the 
eavesdropping  and  spying  to  catch  her  secrets,  the 
studying  of  the  ways  of  all  the  little  wood  people, 


SMALL  SHOT  211 

not  worth,  or  inestimably  more  than  worth,  pow- 
der and  shot.  Who  has  ever  heard  the  last  word 
the  jay  has  to  tell  him  in  her  many  voices?  Who 
has  tired  of  visiting  with  the  chickadees,  or  of 
watching  the  nuthatches  creeping  headlong  down 
the  mossy  tree  trunks,  or  the  squirrels'  saucy 
tricks,  or  the  ways  of  strange  woods  plants  grow- 
ing and  blowing  and  seeding,  and  the  odd  freaks  of 
trees'  growths,  and  no  end  of  things  that  he  would 
never  have  heard  or  seen  if  it  had  not  been  for  this 
wooden  and  iron  excuse  that  he  lugs  about  with 
him?  Thanks  be  to  its  first  inventor,  in  spite  of  all 
the  woeful  mischief  it  has  wrought.  How  many 
happy  days  it  has  gone  to  the  making  of,  from  boy- 
hood to  old  age,  in  the  lives  of  those  who  love  it. 
What  a  comfort  is  the  ownership  of  a  good  gun, 
though  one  seldom  shoots  it.  What  a  pleasure  its 
owner  has  hi  those  seasons  when  it  cannot  be 
otherwise  used,  in  putting  it  in  order  for  the  days 
fondly  looked  forward  to  —  days  when  the  woods 
have  put  on  then*  last  and  bravest  attire  of  the 
year  —  days  when  they  have  cast  it  off  and  all 
the  landscape  is  veiled  in  the  gray  haze  of  Indian 
summer,  and  days  when  all  the  fields  and  frozen 
waters  are  white  with  the  first  snows  and  the  wild 
music  of  the  hounds  stirs  the  woods. 

When  these  days  have  come  and  gone  and  win- 
ter winds  are  howling,  who  so  much  as  he,  born  to 
the  love  of  field  sports  with  small  opportunity  of 


212  SMALL  SHOT 

enjoying  them,  delights  to  read  by  his  cheerful 
fireside  what  others  more  fortunate  have  written 
of  their  outings,  and  to  share  with  them  in  spirit 
the  happy  hours  in  camps  by  wild  lakes,  the  tramps 
in  primeval  forests,  and  hunting  tours  in  far-away 
lands  that  he  may  never  see. 

II.    THE  OLD  GUN 

IT  is  not  to  be  denied  that  there  is  great  satisfac- 
tion in  being  the  owner  of  a  fine  new  gun.  The 
perfect  result  of  the  handicraft  of  a  master  of  the 
art  of  gunmaking;  a  piece  so  nicely  balanced  that 
it  will  almost  take  the  line  of  flight  of  the  swiftest 
flying  bird  of  its  own  mere  motion;  all  its  parts  so 
neatly  fitted  that  a  spider's  web  inserted  might 
cause  a  jam;  its  polished  and  gracefully  turned 
stock,  the  chosen  bit  of  many  a  goodly  tree;  the 
variegated  barrels  almost  as  beautiful  to  look  upon 
in  their  regular  irregularity  as  a  golden  and  purple 
barred  sunset  sky,  or  the  shimmer  of  a  rippled 
lake.  It  is  a  delight  to  the  eye  to  see,  to  the  hand  to 
hold,  a  satisfaction  to  the  soul  to  feel  that  one  is 
the  possessor  of  such  a  weapon.  And  yet,  like 
riches,  and  like  love,  it  has  its  cares,  anxieties,  and 
jealousies.  One  dislikes  to  be  caught  in  the  rain 
with  such  a  gun  in  its  untarnished  beauty,  or  to 
take  it  out  under  threatening  skies,  or  to  breast 
haphazard  blackberry  briars  with  it  in  hand;  to 
leave  it  at  night  uncleaned,  though  the  day's 


SMALL  SHOT  213 

tramp  has  been  a  weary  one,  and  all  one's  muscles 
and  bones  cry  out  for  rest.  One's  richer  neighbor 
may  have  a  costlier  gun,  hence  a  pang  of  unchris- 
tian envy,  and  the  breaking  of  a  holy  command- 
ment, all  for  a  stock  and  a  bit  of  iron. 

Not  these  frets  and  worries  and  ungodly  heart- 
burnings are  felt  by  him  whose  only  weaponly 
possession  is  an  ancient  muzzle-loader,  the  barrels 
whereof  halfway  from  breech  to  muzzle  are  worn 
bare  of  their  first  and  only  browning,  with  stock 
battered,  scratched,  and  bruised,  locks  rickety  and 
inviting  irrigation.  The  rains  may  fall  upon  it 
and  brambles  scratch  it,  and  it  be  none  the  worse 
for  looks  or  use.  Its  owner  may  hang  it  on  its  hooks 
at  night,  with  barrels  foul  and  dully  blushing 
with  a  film  of  rust;  and  sup  with  slow  comfort, 
and  then  betake  himself  to  dreamless  sleep,  un- 
troubled by  thought  of  duty  unperformed. 

What  happy  memories  are  awakened  by  the  sight 
and  touch  of  the  old  gun,  with  which  one's  first 
woodcock  and  snipe,  wild  duck  and  grouse  were 
brought  down.  The  very  alder  brake,  and  bog, 
river  bend,  and  russet  and  green  bit  of  beech  and 
hemlock  woodland  rises  before  him,  each  the 
scene  of  a  first  glorious  triumph  in  autumns  long 
ago,  and  each  in  apparition  almost  as  real  as  then, 
though  all  are  changed  or  passed  away.  This  bruise 
of  the  stock  and  dent  in  the  barrel  were  got  in  a 
tumble  over  a  ledge  when  you  were  rushing  for  a 


214  SMALL  SHOT 

runway,  and  you  remember  how  your  heart  tum- 
bled at  the  time,  and  it  aches  and  burns  yet  with 
the  fall  it  got,  and  the  recollection  of  lost  oppor- 
tunity. 

For  use  the  old  gun  is  as  good  as  it  was  then  — 
though  its  owner  is  not,  and  as  for  looks,  he  has 
none  the  better  of  it.  Maybe  there  were  those  who 
used  it  before  him,  old  hunters  of  the  by-gone  days 
when  caplocks  first  came  in  and  game  was  plenty; 
over  whose  tough  old  bones  the  grass  has  grown 
and  withered,  and  the  snow  lain  for  many  a  year, 
and  who  are  now  remembered  more  by  the  guns 
they  carried  than  by  their  gravestones.  For  the 
sights  their  now  faded  eyes  beheld,  for  a  chance  at 
the  game  their  guns  brought  down,  what  would  one 
not  give?  The  old  gun  is  a  link  that  holds  one  to 
the  past.  Let  us  not  despise  it,  though  it  is  of  a 
fashion  of  other  days  —  though  it  is  rusted  and 
battered  and  its  maker's  name  worn  off  and  for- 
gotten, it  has  that  in  it  more  enduring  than  iron, 
that  which  no  new  gun  can  have,  no  matter  how 
handsome  or  good. 

III.    THE  SORROWS  OF  SPORTSMEN 

EVEN  so  happy  a  man  as  he  who  disports  himself 
with  rod  and  gun  has  his  sorrows,  as  has  the  less 
favored  mortal  whose  pleasure  lies  in  walks  out- 
side of  quiet  woods  and  afar  from  pleasant  waters. 
Of  the  sportsman's  vexations  may  be  mentioned 


SMALL  SHOT  215 

many  pertaining  to  things  inanimate  and  animate. 
Of  the  first  class  are  kinking  lines,  ill- working  reels, 
non-exploding  caps  and  primers,  sticking  shells, 
un-sticking  wads,  and  no  end  of  such  perverse 
belongings  to  the  angler's  and  gunner's  outfit,  as 
well  as  those  which  come  in  his  way,  as  twigs,  logs, 
bogs,  cold  water  under  foot  and  pouring  from  over 
head,  to  switch,  tangle,  trip,  bemire,  and  soak  him. 
Of  animate  things,  how  will  all  the  insects  of  the 
air  and  earth  combine  to  torture  him,  and  how  will 
the  very  objects  of  his  pursuit  forsake  all  the  laws 
and  rules  laid  down  by  nature  and  custom,  and 
thwart  his  skillfulest  endeavors  to  possess  them. 

But  all  these  are  nothing  to  the  vexation  and 
sorrow  wrought  unto  his  soul  by  his  brother  man. 
There  are  those  counted  honest  in  ordinary  affairs 
of  life  who  will  poach  in  close  times  and  rob  their 
honester  fellows  of  that  which  enriches  not  them 
and  makes  these  others  poor  indeed  —  in  the  loss 
of  time  and  satisfaction  of  reasonable  desires. 
And  there  are  also  law-makers  who  put  pig's  heads 
on  their  shoulders  when  they  come  to  making 
laws  for  the  protection  of  fish  and  game,  though 
they  bear  the  levelest  of  brains  when  matters  of 
valuation  and  taxation  are  concerned. 

Yet  these  are  vexations  of  the  spirit  which  one 
happy  day  of  sport  may  lift,  as  north  wind  and 
sunshine  the  fog  from  the  landscape.  But  when  he, 
who  has  not  been  by  his  favorite  stream  since  the 


216  SMALL  SHOT 

year-ago  summer  when  birds  and  fields  welcomed 
him  with  song  and  holiday  attire,  now  finds  the 
banks  laid  bare  by  the  axe,  and  the  stream  turned 
away  by  some  scientific  agriculturist  who  hates 
willows  and  crooked  waterways;  when  he,  who  has 
not  visited  copse  and  wood  with  dog  and  gun  since 
last  year's  leaves  were  gaudy  or  sere,  goes  out  to- 
day to  find  the  alders  he  had  come  to  think  his  own, 
only  brush  heaps  and  clusters  of  stubby  stumps; 
his  worshiped  hemlocks  and  pines,  his  lithe  birches 
and  widespread  beeches,  and  bee-inviting  dog- 
woods, only  saw  logs  and  piles  of  cord  wood  lying  in 
state  among  lopped  branches  and  fluffy  plumes  of 
fire-weed,  his  heart  grows  sick  with  a  climbing 
sorrow  that  will  not  down.  How  suddenly  has  his 
goodly  heritage  passed  from  him.  A  year  ago  he 
had  more  good  of  it  than  the  one  who  held  the  deed 
of  the  land,  though  he  got  naught  tangible  there- 
from but  a  half-filled  creel  or  a  few  brace  of  birds. 
Yet  how  full  was  fed  his  starved  spirit  that  so  long 
had  craved  the  blessed  food  that  Nature  gives  to 
those  who  love  her. 

The  worst  of  it  is,  that  if  he  prays,  or  curses,  or 
weeps,  he  cannot  change  it.  By  and  by  over  this 
waste  may  be  heard  the  "lovely  laughter  of  the 
wind-swept  wheat"  and  the  hum  of  bees,  which 
have  come  here  to  gather  sweets  from  clover,  but 
never  again  will  brood  over  it  the  solemn  quiet  of 
the  old  woods,  nor  grouse  cleave  the  shadows  of 


SMALL  SHOT  217 

great  trees,  nor  woodcock  thrid  the  mazes  of  the 
brake,  nor  trout  swim  in  the  shade  of  the  willows. 
This  is  the  heaviest  grief  that  comes  to  the  man 
who  uses  rod  and  gun,  or  to  him  who  hunts  with- 
out a  gun.  Yet  some  good  may  come  of  it,  for 
thereby  he  may  learn  to  pity  his  red  brother,  who 
loved  all  these  things  and  suffered  greater  loss  in 
their  passing  from  his  possession. 

IV.    THE  GOOSE-KILLERS 

THE  fable  of  the  youth  who  killed  the  goose  that 
laid  every  day  a  golden  egg  for  him,  has  been  told 
by  tongue  and  print  so  often  and  for  so  many  years 
that  every  one  must  have  heard  or  read  it,  but  it 
would  seem  that  few  had  profited  by  it  when  year 
after  year  so  many  go  on  killing  the  geese  that  lay 
eggs  of  gold  for  them.  It  is  no  great  matter  of  won- 
der that  the  thoughtless  and  purely  selfish  should 
do  so  foolish  a  thing,  but  it  is  almost  past  account- 
ing for  that  those  who  are  forecasting  and  prudent 
in  the  general  affairs  of  life  should  be  so  blind  to 
their  interest. 

When  the  wild  geese  come  honking  along  the 
April  sky,  and  wild  ducks  tarry  a  little  on  their 
journey  in  waters  just  unsealed,  and  snipe  drop 
down  on  the  thawing  marshes  to  rest  and  feed, 
and  flocks  of  shore  birds  skirt  the  long  coast,  all  on 
their  way  to  summer  homes  to  lay  eggs  that  would 
be  golden  in  golden  autumn,  the  goose-killer  is  in 


218  SMALL  SHOT 

wait  for  them  all  along  their  thoroughfare  at  every 
halting  place,  greedy  for  the  most,  craving  the  last 
of  them.  Then  when  he  has  wrought  what  havoc 
he  can,  though  not  the  half  he  would,  and  the 
frightened  survivors  of  the  harried  flocks  of  mi- 
grants have  gone  their  way  to  the  savage  but  kinder 
far  North,  he  amuses  his  bloodthirst  awhile  with 
spawning  bass  and  trout  fry  too  small  to  wear  a 
visible  spot,  and  boasts  shamelessly  of  the  num- 
bers he  has  caught. 

Presently  the  woodcock  is  hatched  and  able  to 
fly  and  so  is  the  young  grouse,  and  the  half -grown 
plover  is  making  short  flights  across  the  fields  where 
it  was  born,  and  the  goose-killer  is  in  his  glory  now, 
for  he  can  smell  powder  and  taste  warm  blood 
again.  It  matters  little  to  him  what  the  husbanded 
chances  of  the  future  might  bring.  He  counts  a 
tough  morsel  to-day  better  than  a  tender  feast  to- 
morrow. A  lean  waterfowl  in  spring,  an  untimely 
taken  fish,  a  half-grown  woodcock,  or  grouse  or 
plover  in  summer  time  are  more  to  him  than  the 
dozen  or  score  of  each  that  might  be  hatched  from 
the  golden  egg,  and  might  be  taken  by  and  by  in 
their  proper  season  —  by  some  one  else,  perhaps. 
Aye,  there's  the  rub  that  brings  upon  the  world 
the  calamity  of  the  goose-killer's  existence  and 
evil  deeds.  He  must  have  what  he  will  to-day,  lest 
some  one  get  more  to-morrow,  though  there  be 
nothing  left  for  any  one  to-morrow. 


SMALL  SHOT  219 

If  there  were  no  hounding  of  deer,  the  world 
might  come  to  an  end  before  he  could  boast  of 
killing  one,  he,  meanwhile,  eating  his  own  heart 
with  bitter  sauce  of  envy,  beholding  the  skillful 
hunter  kill  his  stag  often  by  fair  and  sportsman- 
like methods.  What  is  it  to  him  that  there  should 
be  no  deer  in  all  the  woods  twenty  years  hence, 
so  that  he  to-day  clubs  to  death  one  suckling 
doe? 

Nor  is  this  so-called  sportsman  the  only  goose- 
killer  whose  wrongdoing  makes  us  all  suffer.  For 
his  and  the  milliners'  profit  and  the  barbarous 
ornamentation  of  women's  head-dress,  another 
ruthlessly  slays  the  harmless  and  useful  beautiful 
birds,  to  the  world's  loss  of  song  and  beauty  and 
goodness.  The  farmer  and  the  lumberman  strip 
mountain  and  swamp  of  forest  growth  for  a  little 
present  gain  and  the  world's  irreparable  loss,  the 
loss  of  copious  springs  and  streams,  and  loss  by 
disastrous  floods.  A  few  greedy  speculators  com- 
bine to  spoil  the  nation's  park  for  their  own  selfish 
gain,  shameless,  unscrupulous;  and  the  nation 
looks  on  almost  unconcerned,  with  but  here  and 
there  a  voice  lifted  in  condemnation  of  the  out- 
rageous scheme  of  destruction. 

So  the  ceaseless  warfare  against  nature  goes 
on,  till  one  is  almost  ready  to  despair  that  the  race 
of  goose-killers  shall  be  removed  from  the  face  of 
the  earth  till  the  last  goose  that  lays  an  egg  of 


220  SMALL  SHOT 

gold  shall  be  killed;  that  the  destroyer  shall  pass 
away  only  when  there  is  nothing  left  for  him  to 
destroy. 

V.    WHY  NOT  WAIT  ? 

WE  have  come  to  the  frayed  end  of  another  win- 
ter. The  earth's  white  carpet  is  worn  to  shreds, 
and  Nature  is  making  ready  to  weave  her  a  new 
one  of  green,  with  all  sorts  of  flower  patterns  that 
ought  not  to  "fail  to  please  the  most  fastidious." 
Some  of  the  bluebirds  have  escaped  the  guns  and 
snares  of  the  milliners'  collectors,  and  are  with  us 
again,  the  return  of  the  robin  has  been  announced, 
and  the  song  sparrow  is  tuning  up  his  pipe  for  the 
spring  concerts.  The  crystal  hatches  will  soon  be 
off  the  streams,  and  the  fishes  will  once  more  get  a 
look  at  the  sky,  and  at  the  angler,  who  is  now  be- 
ginning to  overhaul  his  tackle  in  anticipation  of 
the  opening  day  of  the  season. 

The  ducks  and  geese  and  snipe  and  shore-birds 
will  presently  be  on  their  way  to  northern  breed- 
ing-grounds, and  too  many  sportsmen  are  making 
ready  to  give  them  a  most  inhospitable  greeting  as 
they  pass  or  tarry  for  a  few  days  of  rest.  Too  many 
sportsmen  will  be  ready  with  the  old  and  poor 
excuse  for  this  wrongdoing,  "If  I  do  not  shoot 
them,  some  one  else  will/'  which  is  worth  nothing, 
for  it  is  not  at  all  certain  that  some  one  else  will 
kill  the  bird  that  you  spare,  and  that  it  will  not  go 


SMALL  SHOT  221 

safely  to  its  breeding  ground  and  return  to  pay 
tenfold  interest  in  the  fall  for  the  lease  of  life  you 
have  given  it.  You  would  recoil  with  horror  from 
the  thought  of  killing  a  doe  heavy  with  young,  for 
you  are  an  honorable  and  conscientious  sports- 
man. And  yet,  all  the  females  of  these  birds  of 
passage  are  carrying  eggs  more  or  less  developed, 
the  hope  of  the  abundant  continuation  of  their 
species.  And  your  example  is  worth  something,  as 
every  man's  is,  yours  perhaps  worth  far  more  than 
another's.  If  you  did  not  get  shooting  in  the  spring, 
it  is  not  unlikely  that  some  one  else  would  stay  at 
home,  simply  because  you  did. 

Another  excuse  and  a  no  better  one  is,  "  If  we  do 
not  shoot  ducks  and  geese  and  snipe  in  spring,  we 
shall  have  no  shooting  till  summer  woodcock 
shooting  comes,"  which  ought  not  to  come  at  all. 
Why  not  wait  till  autumn  for  sport  worth  having, 
and  concerning  which  one  need  have  no  qualms  of 
conscience?  Is  not  sport,  like  love,  "the  sweeter 
for  the  trial  and  delay?" 

Let  the  gun  rest  for  a  few  months  longer,  and 
then  when  the  steel  bhie  skies  of  autumn  endome 
the  bluer  waters  and  the  varied  hues  of  frost- 
painted  woods  and  russet  marshes,  you  shall  reap 
your  reward  if  it  is  no  more  than  the  consciousness 
of  having  faithfully  done  your  duty.  It  is  some- 
times nobler  sportsmanship  to  spare  than  to  kill. 
Assuredly  it  is  so  at  this  season. 


NEW  ENGLAND  FENCES 

A  QUESTION  of  the  future,  that  troubles  the  mind 
of  the  farmer  more  than  almost  any  other  is, 
What  are  we  to  do  for  fences?  The  wood-hungry 
iron  horse  is  eating  away  the  forests  greedily  and 
rapidly,  and  our  people  are  ready  to  feed  him  to 
his  fill  for  a  paltry  present  fee,  apparently  learning 
no  wisdom  from  the  follies  of  our  forest-destroy- 
ing ancestors,  but  carrying  on  the  same  old,  sense- 
less, and  indiscriminate  warfare  against  trees 
wherever  found,  and  seldom  planting  any  except 
fruit-trees  and  a  few  shade-trees. 

And,  alas !  no  just  retribution  seems  to  overtake 
these  evil-doers,  except  that  most  speculating  de- 
foresters  go  to  the  bad  pecuniarily,  but  the  curse 
descends  on  the  sorrowing  lovers  of  trees,  and  will 
fall  on  our  children  and  our  children's  children,  — 
the  curse  of  a  withered  and  wasted  land,  of  hills 
made  barren,  of  dried-up  springs  and  shrunken 
streams. 

It  seems  probable  that  a  generation  not  far  re- 
moved from  this  will  see  the  last  of  the  rail  fences, 
those  time-honored  barriers  of  NewEngland  fields, 
too  generous  of  timber  to  be  kept  up  in  a  land 
barren  of  forests.  The  board  fence  will  endure 
longer,  but  will  pass  away  at  last,  and  after  it, 


NEW  ENGLAND  FENCES          223 

what?  Where  stone  walls  are,  they  may  continue 
to  be,  and  where  there  are  stones  enough  there  may 
be  more  stone  walls,  but  all  New  England  is  not  so 
bountifully  supplied  in  this  respect  as  parts  of  it 
that  I  have  heard  of,  where  if  one  buys  an  acre 
of  land,  he  must  buy  another  to  pile  the  stones  of 
the  first  acre  on.  In  some  of  our  alluvial  lands  it  is 
hard  to  find  stones  enough  for  the  corner  supports 
of  rail  fences.  The  hedge,  except  for  ornamenta- 
tion in  a  small  way,  does  not,  somehow,  seem  to 
take  kindly  to  us,  or  we  to  it;  at  least,  I  have  never 
seen  one  of  any  great  length,  nor  one  flourishing 
much,  that  was  intended  to  be  a  barrier  against 
stock.  If  ever  so  thrifty  for  a  while,  is  it  not  likely 
that  the  pestiferous  field-mice,  which  are  becoming 
plentier  every  year,  as  their  enemies,  the  foxes, 
skunks,  hawks,  owls,  and  crows  grow  fewer,  would 
destroy  them  in  the  first  winter  of  deep  snow? 
Great  hopes  were  entertained  of  the  wire  fence  at 
one  time,  but  it  has  proved  to  be  a  delusion  and 
indeed  a  snare.  Some  are  temporizing  with  fate, 
or  barely  surrendering,  by  taking  away  the  fences 
where  grain  fields  or  meadows  border  the  highway. 
To  me  it  is  not  pleasant  to  have  the  ancient  boun- 
daries of  the  road  removed,  over  which  kindly- 
spared  trees  have  so  long  stood  guard,  and  along 
whose  sides  black-raspberry  bushes  have  sprung 
up  and  looped  their  inverted  festoons  of  wine- 
colored  stems  and  green  leaves  with  silver  linings, 


S24          NEW  ENGLAND  FENCES 

bearing  racemes  of  fruit  that  the  sauntering  school- 
boy lingers  to  gather.  And  far  from  pleasant  is  it  to 
drive  cattle  or  sheep  along  such  unfenced  ways, 
which  they  are  certain  to  stray  from,  and  exhaust 
the  breath  and  patience  of  him  who  drives  them 
and  endeavors  to  keep  them  within  the  unmarked 
bounds;  moreover,  it  gives  the  country  a  common 
look  in  more  than  one  sense,  as  if  nothing  were 
worth  keeping  in  or  out.  It  will  be  a  sad  day  for 
the  advertiser  of  patent  nostrums,  when  the  road 
fence  of  broad,  brush-inviting  boards  ceases  to 
exist,  and  if  we  did  not  know  that  his  evil  genius 
would  be  certain  to  devise  some  blazoning  of  his 
balms,  liniments,  and  bitters,  quite  as  odious  as 
this,  we  should  be  almost  ready  to  say,  away  with 
this  temptation.  That  was  a  happy  device  of  one 
of  OUT  farmers,  who  turned  the  tables  on  the  im- 
pudent advertiser,  by  knocking  the  boards  off 
and  then  nailing  them  on  again  with  the  letters 
facing  the  field.  The  cattle  stared  a  little  at  first 
at  Ridgeway's  Ready  Restorative,  but  never  took 
any. 

However,  it  is  not  my  purpose  to  speculate  con- 
cerning the  fences  of  the  future,  nor  to  devise 
means  for  impounding  the  fields  of  posterity,  but 
rather  to  make  some  record  of  such  fences  as  we 
now  have,  and  some  that  have  already  passed 
away. 

The  old  settlers,  when  they  had  brought  a 


NEW  ENGLAND  FENCES          225 

patch  of  the  earth  face  to  face  with  the  sun,  and 
had  sown  their  scanty  seed  therein,  fenced  it  about 
with  poles,  a  flimsy-looking  barricade  in  the 
shadow  of  the  lofty  palisade  of  ancient  trees  that 
walled  the  "betterments,"  but  sufficient  to  keep 
the  few  wood-ranging  cattle  out  of  the  field  whose 
green  of  springing  gram  was  dotted  and  blotched 
with  blackened  stumps  and  log-heaps.  The  pole 
fence  was  laid  after  the  same  fashion  of  a  rail  fence, 
only  the  poles  were  longer  than  rail-cuts.  There 
were  also  cross-staked  pole  fences,  in  which  the 
fence  was  laid  straight,  each  pole  being  upheld  by 
two  stakes  crossing  the  one  beneath,  their  lower 
ends  being  driven  into  the  ground.  This  and  the 
brush  fence,  though  the  earliest  of  our  fences,  have 
not  yet  passed  away.  That  the  last  has  not,  one 
may  find  to  his  sorrow,  when,  coming  to  its  length- 
wise-laid abatis  in  the  woodland,  he  attempts  to 
cross  it.  If  he  achieve  it  with  a  whole  skin  and  un- 
rent  garments,  he  is  a  fortunate  man,  and  if  with 
an  unruffled  temper,  he  is  certainly  a  good-natured 
one.  According  to  an  unwritten  law,  it  is  said  that 
a  lawful  brush  fence  must  be  a  rod  wide,  with  no 
specification  as  to  its  height.  You  will  think  a  less 
width  enough,  when  you  have  made  the  passage  of 
one.  Coming  to  it,  you  are  likely  to  start  from  its 
shelter  a  hare  who  has  made  his  form  there;  or  a 
ruffed  grouse  hurtles  away  from  beside  it,  where 
she  has  been  dusting  her  feathers  in  the  powdery 


226          NEW  ENGLAND  FENCES 

remains  of  an  old  log;  or  you  may  catch  glimpses 
of  a  brown  wood  wren  silently  exploring  the  maze 
of  prostrate  branches.  These  are  the  fence  viewers 
of  the  woodlot. 

To  build  or  pile  a  brush  fence,  such  small  trees 
as  stand  along  its  line  are  lopped  down,  but  not 
severed  from  the  stump,  and  made  to  fall  length- 
wise of  the  fence;  enough  more  trees  are  brought  to 
it  to  give  it  the  width  and  height  required.  Many 
of  the  lopped  ones  live  and,  then*  wounds  healing, 
they  grow  to  be  vigorous  trees,  then*  fantastic 
forms  marking  the  course  of  the  old  brush  fence 
long  after  it  has  passed  from  the  memory  of  man. 
I  remember  a  noted  one  which  stood  by  the  road- 
side till  an  ambitious  owner  of  a  city  lot  bought  it 
and  had  it  removed  to  his  urban  patch,  where  it 
soon  died.  It  was  a  lusty  white  oak,  a  foot  or  so 
in  diameter  at  the  ground,  three  feet  above  which 
the  main  trunk  turned  at  a  right  angle  and  grew 
horizontally  for  about  ten  feet,  and  along  this  part 
were  thrown  up,  at  regular  intervals,  five  perfect 
smaller  trunks,  each  branching  into  a  symmetrical 
head.  It  was  the  finest  tree  of  such  a  strange 
growth  that  I  ever  saw,  and  if  it  had  grown  in  a 
congenial  human  atmosphere,  doubtless  would 
have  flourished  for  a  hundred  years  or  more,  and 
likely  enough,  have  become  world-renowned.  It 
was  sold  for  five  dollars !  No  wonder  it  died ! 

The  log  fence  was  a  structure  of  more  substance 


NEW  ENGLAND  FENCES          227 

than  either  the  pole  or  the  brush  fence,  but  be- 
longed to  the  same  period  of  plentifulness,  even 
cumbersomeness,  of  timber.  The  great  logs,  gen- 
erally pine,  were  laid  straight,  overlapping  a  little 
at  the  ends,  on  which  were  placed  horizontally 
the  short  cross-pieces,  which  upheld  the  logs  next 
above.  These  fences  were  usually  built  three  logs 
high  and  formed  a  very  solid  wooden  wall,  but  at  a 
lavish  expense  of  material,  for  one  of  the  logs  sawn 
into  boards  would  have  fenced  several  times  the 
length  of  the  three.  I  remember  but  one,  or  rather 
the  remains  of  one,  for  it  was  only  a  reddish  and 
gray  line  of  mouldering  logs  when  I  first  knew  it, 
with  here  and  there  a  sturdy  trunk  still  bravely 
holding  out  against  decay,  gray  with  the  weather 
beating  of  fifty  years,  and  adorned  with  a  coral- 
like  moss  bearing  scarlet  spores. 

From  behind  the  log  and  brush  fences,  the  prowl- 
ing Indian  ambushed  the  backwoodsman  as  he 
tilled  his  field,  or  reconnoitered  the  lonely  cabin 
before  he  fell  upon  its  defenseless  inmates.  Through 
or  over  these  old-time  fences,  the  bear  pushed  or 
clambered  to  his  feast  of  "corn  in  the  milk"  or 
perhaps  to  his  death,  if  he  blundered  against  a 
harmless-looking  bark  string  and  pulled  the  trigger 
of  a  spring-gun,  whose  heavy  charge  of  ball  and 
buck-shot  put  an  end  to  his  predatory  career. 

After  these  early  fences  came  the  rail  fence,  as 
it  is  known  in  New  England,  or  the  snake  fence, 


228          NEW  ENGLAND  FENCES 

as  it  is  sometimes  called  from  the  slight  resem- 
blance of  its  zig-zag  line  to  the  course  of  a  serpent, 
or  the  Virginia  fence,  perhaps  because  the  Old 
Dominion  was  the  mother  of  it  as  of  presidents, 
but  more  likely  for  no  better  reason  than  that  the 
common  deer  is  named  the  Virginia  deer,  or  that 
no  end  of  quadrupeds  and  birds  and  plants,  having 
their  home  as  much  in  the  United  States  as  in  the 
British  Provinces,  bear  the  title  of  Canodensis.  But 
rail,  snake,  or  Virginia,  at  any  rate  it  is  truly 
American,  and  probably  has  enclosed  and  does  yet 
enclose  more  acres  of  our  land  than  any  other  fence. 
But  one  seldom  sees  nowadays  a  new  rail  fence,  or 
rather  a  fence  of  new  rails,  and  we  shall  never  have 
another  wise  and  kindly  railsplitter  to  rule  over  us; 
and  no  more  new  pine  rails,  shining  like  gold  in 
the  sun,  and  spicing  the  ah*  with  their  terebmthine 
perfume.  The  noble  pine  has  become  too  rare 
and  valuable  to  be  put  to  such  base  use.  One  may 
catch  the  white  gleam  of  a  new  ash  rail,  or  short- 
lived bass-wood,  among  the  gray  of  the  original 
fence,  a  patch  of  new  stuff  in  the  old  garment, 
but  not  often  the  sheen  of  a  whole  fence  of  such 
freshly  riven  material.  Some  one  has  called  the 
rail  fence  ugly  or  hideous.  Truly,  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, the  newly  laid  rail  fence  is  not  a  thing  of 
beauty,  any  more  than  is  any  other  new  thing  that 
is  fashioned  by  man  and  intended  to  stand  out  of 
doors.  The  most  tastefully  modeled  house  looks 


NEW  ENGLAND  FENCES          229 

out  of  place  in  the  landscape  till  it  has  gained  the 
perfect  fellowship  of  its  natural  surroundings,  has 
steeped  itself  in  sunshine  and  storm,  and  become 
saturated  with  nature,  is  weather-stained,  and  has 
flecks  of  moss  and  lichen  on  its  shingles  and  its 
underpinning,  and  can  stand  not  altogether  shame- 
faced in  the  presence  of  the  old  trees  and  world-old 
rocks  and  earth  about  it.  So  our  fence  must  have 
settled  to  its  place,  its  bottom  rails  have  become 
almost  one  with  the  earth  and  all  its  others,  its 
stakes  and  caps  cemented  together  with  mosses 
and  enwrapped  with  vines,  and  so  weather-beaten 
and  crated  with  lichens  that  not  a  sliver  can  be 
taken  from  it  and  not  be  missed.  Then  is  it  beauti- 
ful, and  looks  as  much  a  part  of  nature  as  the  trees 
that  shadow  it,  and  the  berry  bushes  and  weeds 
that  grow  along  it,  and  the  stones  that  were  pitched 
into  its  corners  thirty  years  ago,  to  be  gotten  out 
of  the  way.  Then  the  chipmunk  takes  the  hollow 
rails  for  his  house  and  stores  his  food  therein, 
robins  build  then-  nests  in  the  jutting  corners  and 
the  wary  crow  is  not  afraid  to  light  on  it.  What 
sheltering  arms  half  enclose  its  angles,  where  storm- 
blown  autumn  leaves  find  their  rest,  and  moulder 
to  the  dust  of  earth,  covering  the  seeds  of  berries 
that  the  birds  have  dropped  there  —  seeds  which 
quicken  and  grow  and  border  the  fence  with  a 
thicket  of  berry  bushes.  Seeds  of  maples  and  birch 
and  bass-wood,  driven  here  by  the  winds  of  win- 


230          NEW  ENGLAND  FENCES 

ters  long  past,  have  lodged  and  sprouted,  and  have 
been  kindly  nursed  till  they  have  grown  from 
tender  shoots  to  storm-defying  trees;  there  are 
clumps  of  sumacs  also,  with  their  fuzzy  twigs  and 
fern-like  leaves  and  "bobs"  of  dusky  crimson. 
Here  violets  bloom,  and  wind-flowers  toss  on  their 
slender  stems  in  the  breath  of  May;  and  in  sum- 
mer the  pink  spikes  of  the  willow  herb  overtop 
the  upper  rails,  and  the  mass  of  the  goldenrod's 
bloom  lies  like  a  drift  of  gold  along  the  edge  of 
the  field. 

The  children  who  have  not  had  a  rail  fence  to 
play  beside  have  been  deprived  of  one  abundant 
source  of  happiness,  for  every  corner  is  a  play- 
house, only  needing  a  roof,  which  hah*  a  dozen 
bits  of  board  will  furnish,  to  complete  it.  Then 
they  are  so  easy  to  climb  and  so  pleasant  to  sit 
upon,  when  there  is  a  flat  top-rail;  and  when  a 
bird's  nest  is  found,  it  can  be  looked  into  so  easily; 
and  it  is  such  jolly  fun  to  chase  a  red  squirrel 
and  see  him  go  tacking  along  the  top  rails;  and 
there  are  such  chances  for  berry-picking  beside  it. 
In  winter,  there  are  no  snow-drifts  so  good  to 
play  on  as  those  that  form  in  regular  waves  along 
the  rail  fence,  their  crests  running  at  right  angles 
from  the  out-corners,  their  troughs  from  the  inner 
ones.  I  am  sorry  for  those  children  of  the  future 
who  will  have  no  rail  fences  to  play  about. 

The  board  fence  is  quite  as  ugly  as  the  rail 


NEW  ENGLAND  FENCES          231 

fence  when  new,  perhaps  more  so,  for  it  is  more 
prim  and  more  glaring,  as  there  is  no  alternation 
of  light  and  shade  in  its  straight  line.  But  age  im- 
proves its  appearance  also,  and  when  the  kindly 
touch  of  nature  has  been  laid  upon  it,  and  has 
slanted  a  post  here  and  warped  a  board  there,  and 
given  it  her  weather-mark,  and  sealed  it  with  her 
broad  seal  of  gray-green  and  black  lichens,  by 
which  time  weeds  and  bushes  have  grown  in  its 
shelter,  it  is  very  picturesque.  Its  prevailing  gray 
has  a  multitude  of  shades;  the  varied  weather- 
stains  of  the  wood,  the  lichens,  the  shags  of  moss 
and  their  shadows,  and  some  touches  of  more 
decided  color,  as  the  yellowish-green  mould  that 
gathers  on  some  of  the  boards,  the  brown  knots  and 
rust-streaks  from  nail-heads,  patches  of  green 
moss  on  the  tops  of  posts,  and  here  and  there  the 
hah*  —  or  less  —  of  a  circle,  chafed  by  a  swaying 
weed  or  branch  to  the  color  of  the  unstained  wood. 
The  woodpecker  drills  the  decaying  posts,  and 
bluebird  and  wren  make  their  nest  in  the  hollow 
ones.  There  is  often  a  ditch  -beside  it,  in  which 
cowslips  grow,  and  cat-tails  and  pussy-willows, 
akin  only  in  name;  on  its  edge  horse-tails  and  wild 
grass,  and  higher  up  on  the  bank  a  tangle  of  hazel, 
wild  mulberry,  gooseberry  and  raspberry  bushes, 
with  a  lesser  undergrowth  of  ferns  and  poison  ivy. 
The  field  and  song  sparrows  hide  their  nests  in 
its  slope,  and  if  the  ditch  is  constantly  and  suffi- 


232          NEW  ENGLAND  FENCES 

ciently  supplied  with  water,  sometimes  the  musk- 
rat  burrows  there,  and  you  may  see  his  clumsy 
tracks  in  the  mud  and  the  cleanly  cut  bits  of  the 
wild  grass  roots  he  has  fed  upon.  Here,  too,  the 
hyla  holds  his  earliest  spring  concerts. 

All  this  applies  only  to  the  plain,  unpretend- 
ing fence,  built  simply  for  the  division  of  fields, 
without  any  attempt  at  ornament.  Nature  has  as 
slow  and  painful  a  labor  to  bring  to  her  com- 
panionship the  painted  crib  that  encloses  the 
skimpy  dooryard  of  a  staring,  white,  new  —  or 
modernized  —  farmhouse,  as  she  has  to  subdue 
the  glare  of  the  house  itself;  but  she  will  accom- 
plish it  in  her  own  good  time,  —  the  sooner  if 
aided  by  a  little  wholesome  unthrift  of  an  owner 
who  allows  his  paint-brushes  to  dry  in  their  pots. 

The  fence  which  is  half  wall  and  half  board  has 
a  homely,  rural  look,  as  has  the  low  wall  topped 
with  rails,  resting  on  cross-stakes  slanted  athwart 
the  wall,  or  the  ends  resting  in  rough  mortises  cut 
in  posts  that  are  built  into  the  wall,  which  is  as 
much  of  a  "post  and  rail"  fence  as  we  often  find 
in  northern  New  England.  A  new  fence  of  either 
kind  is  rarely  seen  nowadays  in  our  part  of  the 
country,  and  both  may  be  classed  among  those 
which  are  passing  away. 

Of  all  fences,  the  most  enduring  and  the  most 
satisfying  to  the  eye  is  the  stone  wall.  If  its 
foundation  is  well  laid,  it  may  last  as  long  as  the 


NEW  ENGLAND  FENCES  233 

world  —  which,  indeed,  it  may  slowly  sink  into; 
or  the  accumulating  layers  of  earth  may  in  years 
cover  it;  but  it  will  still  be  a  wall  —  a  grassy  ridge 
with  a  core  of  stone.  A  wall  soon  gets  rid  of  its 
new  look.  It  is  not  propped  up  on  the  earth,  but 
has  its  foundations  in  it;  mosses  and  lichens  take 
quickly  and  kindly  to  it,  and  grass  and  weeds 
grow  out  of  its  lower  crevices,  mullein  and  brakes 
and  the  bulby  stalks  of  goldenrod  spring  up  beside 
it.  Black-raspberry  bushes  loop  along  it,  over  it, 
and  stretch  out  from  it,  clumps  of  sweet  elders 
shade  its  sides,  and  their  broad  cymes  of  blossoms, 
and  later,  clusters  of  blackberries,  beloved  of 
robins  and  school-boys,  bend  over  it.  When  the 
stones  of  which  it  is  built  are  gathered  from  the 
fields,  as  they  generally  are,  they  are  of  infinite 
variety,  brought  from  the  Far  North  by  glaciers, 
washed  up  by  the  waves  of  ancient  seas,  and 
tumbled  down  to  the  lower  lands  from  the  over- 
hanging ledges:  lumps  of  gray  granite  and  gneiss, 
and  dull-red  blocks  of  sandstone,  fragments  of 
blue  limestone,  and  only  a  geologist  knows  how 
many  others,  mostly  with  smooth-worn  sides 
and  rounded  corners  and  edges.  All  together, 
they  make  a  line  of  beautifully  variegated  color 
and  of  light  and  shade.  One  old  wall  that  I  know 
of  has  been  a  rich  mine  for  a  brood  of  callow 
geologists,  who  have  pecked  it  and  overhauled  it 
and  looked  and  talked  most  wisely  over  its  stones, 


234          NEW  ENGLAND  FENCES 

and  called  them  names  hard  enough  to  break 
their  stony  hearts. 

At  the  building  of  the  wall,  what  bending  and 
straining  of  stalwart  backs  and  muscles;  what 
shouting  to  oxen  —  for  it  would  seem  the  ox  can  be 
driven  only  by  sheer  strength  of  lungs;  what  rude 
engineering  to  span  the  rivulet;  what  roaring  of 
blasts,  when  stones  were  too  large  to  be  moved  in 
whole,  and  the  boys  had  the  noise  and  smoke  and 
excitement  of  a  Fourth-of-July  celebration  with- 
out a  penny's  expense,  but  alas!  with  no  ginger- 
bread nor  spruce  beer.  Then,  too,  what  republics 
were  convulsed  when  the  great  stones,  under- 
neath which  a  multitude  of  ants  had  founded 
their  commonwealth,  were  pried  up,  and  what  her- 
mits were  disturbed  when  the  newts  were  made  to 
face  the  daylight,  and  earwigs  and  beetles  forced  to 
scurry  away  to  new  hiding-places!  But  when  the 
wall  was  fairly  built,  the  commonwealths  and  her- 
mitages were  reestablished  beneath  it,  more  se- 
cure and  undisturbed  than  ever. 

The  woodchuck  takes  the  stone  wall  for  his 
castle,  and  through  its  loopholes  whistles  defiance 
to  the  dogs  who  besiege  him,  but  woe  be  to  him  if 
the  boys  join  in  the  assault.  They  make  a  breach 
in  his  stronghold  through  which  the  dogs  can 
reach  him,  or  throw  him  a  "slip-a-noose"  into 
which  he  hooks  his  long  teeth  and  is  hauled  forth 
to  death.  The  weasel  frequents  a  wall  of  this 


NEW  ENGLAND  FENCES          235 

kind,  and  there  is  hardly  a  fissure  in  its  whole 
length  through  which  his  lithe,  snake-like  body 
cannot  pass.  You  may  now  perhaps  see  his  eyes 
peering  out  of  a  hole  in  the  wall,  so  bright  you 
might  mistake  them  for  dewdrops  on  a  spider's 
web,  or  see  him  stealing  to  his  lair  with  a  field 
mouse  in  his  mouth.  In  spring,  summer,  and  fall, 
nature  clothes  this  little  hunter  in  russet,  but  in 
winter  he  has  a  furry  coat  almost  as  white  as 
snow,  with  only  a  black  tip  to  his  tail  by  which  to 
know  himself  in  the  wintry  waste.  The  chipmunk, 
too,  haunts  the  wall,  and  the  red  squirrel  finds  in 
it  handy  hiding-places  into  which  to  retreat,  when 
from  the  topmost  stone  he  has  jeered  and  snickered 
at  the  passer-by  beyond  all  patience. 

Long  after  our  people  had  begun  to  tire  of  mow- 
ing and  ploughing  about  the  great  pine  stumps, 
whose  pitchy  roots  nothing  but  fire  would  destroy, 
and  when  the  land  had  become  too  valuable  to 
be  cumbered  by  them,  some  timely  genius  arose 
and  invented  the  stump  puller  and  the  stump 
fence.  This  fence  withstands  the  tooth  of  time  as 
long  as  the  red-cedar  posts,  of  which  the  boy  said 
he  knew  they  would  last  a  hundred  years,  for  his 
father  had  tried  'em  lots  of  times;  and  now  many 
fields  of  our  old  pine-bearing  lands  are  bounded 
by  these  stumps,  like  barricades  of  mighty  antlers. 
These  old  roots  have  a  hold  on  the  past,  for  in 
their  day  they  have  spread  themselves  in  the  un- 


236          NEW  ENGLAND  FENCES 

sunned  mould  of  the  primeval  forest,  whereon  no 
man  trod  but  the  wild  Abenaki,  nor  any  tamed 
thing;  have  had  in  turn  for  then*  owners  swarthy 
sagamores,  sceptered  kings  and  rude  backwoods- 
men. Would  they  had  life  enough  left  in  them 
to  tell  then*  story! 

There  is  variety  enough  in  the  writhed  and 
fantastic  forms  of  the  roots,  but  they  are  slow  to 
don  any  covering  of  moss  and  lichens  over  their 
whity-gray,  and  so  they  have  a  bald,  almost 
skeleton-like  appearance.  But  when  creeping 
plants  —  the  woodbine,  the  wild  grape,  and  the 
clematis  —  grow  over  the  stump  fence,  it  is  very 
beautiful.  The  woodbine  suits  it  best,  and  hi 
summer  converts  it  into  a  wall  of  dark  green,  in 
autumn  into  one  of  crimson,  and  in  winter  drapes 
it  gracefully  with  its  slender  vines. 

This  fence  has  plenty  of  nooks  for  berry  bushes, 
milk-weeds,  goldenrods,  and  asters  to  grow  in, 
which  they  speedily  do  and,  as  a  return,  help  to 
hide  its  nakedness.  Nor  does  it  lack  tenants,  for 
the  robin  builds  on  it,  and  the  bluebird  makes 
its  nest  in  its  hollow  prongs,  as  the  wrens  used  to, 
before  they  so  unaccountably  deserted  us.  The 
chipmunk  finds  snug  cells  in  the  stumps,  wood- 
chucks  and  skunks  burrow  beneath  it,  and  it 
harbors  multitudes  of  field  mice. 

In  the  neighborhood  of  sawmills,  fencing  a  bit 
of  the  road  and  the  sawyer's  garden  patch,  but 


NEW  ENGLAND  FENCES          237 

seldom  elsewhere,  is  seen  a  fence  made  of  slabs  from 
the  mill,  one  end  of  each  slab  resting  on  the 
ground,  the  other  upheld  by  cross  stakes.  It  is 
not  an  enduring  fence,  and  always  looks  too  new 
to  be  as  picturesque  in  color  as  it  is  in  form.  The 
common  name  of  this  fence  is  quite  suggestive  of 
the  perils  that  threaten  whoever  tries  to  clamber 
over  it,  and  he  who  has  tried  it  once  will  skirt  it  a 
furlong  rather  than  try  it  again.  The  sawyer's 
melons  and  apples  would  be  safe  enough  inside  it 
if  there  were  no  boys,  —  but  what  fence  is  boy- 
proof? 

Of  all  fences,  none  is  so  simple  as  the  water 
fence,  only  a  pole  spanning  the  stream,  perhaps 
fastened  at  the  larger  end  by  a  stout  link  and 
staple  to  a  great  water-maple,  ash  or  buttonwood- 
tree,  a  mooring  to  hold  it  from  going  adrift  when 
the  floods  sweep  down.  If  the  stream  is  shallow, 
it  has  a  central  support,  a  big  stone  that  happens 
to  be  hi  the  right  place,  or  lacking  this,  a  pier 
made  like  a  great  bench;  if  deep,  the  middle  of 
the  pole  sags  into  the  water  and  the  upper  current 
ripples  over  it.  On  it  the  turtle  basks;  here  the 
wood-duck  sits  and  sleeps  or  preens  his  handsome 
feathers  in  the  sun,  and  the  kingfisher  watches  for 
his  fare  of  minnows,  and  the  lithe  mink  and  the 
clumsy  muskrat  rest  upon  it.  Neighbor's  cattle 
bathe  in  and  sip  the  common  stream,  and  lazily 
fight  their  common  enemies,  the  fly  and  the  mos- 


238          NEW  ENGLAND  FENCES 

quito,  and  for  all  we  know  compare  the  merits  of 
their  owners  and  respective  pastures. 

The  fences  of  interval  lands  cannot  be  called 
water  fences,  although  during  spring  and  fall 
freshets  they  divide  only  wastes  of  water,  across 
which  they  show  merely  as  streaks  of  gray,  or,  as 
they  are  too  apt  to  do,  go  drifting  piecemeal  down 
stream  with  the  strong  current.  Then  the  owners 
go  cruising  over  the  flooded  fields  in  quest  of  their 
rails  and  boards,  finding  some  stranded  on  shores 
a  long  way  from  their  proper  place,  some  lodged 
in  the  lower  branches  and  crotches  of  trees  and  in 
thickets  of  button-bushes,  and  some  afloat,  — 
losing  many  that  go  to  the  gam  of  some  riparian 
freeholder  further  down  the  stream,  but  by  the 
same  chance  getting  perhaps  as  many  as  they 
lose. 

I  have  seen  a  very  peculiar  fence  in  the  slate 
region  of  Vermont,  made  of  slabs  of  slate,  set  in 
the  earth  like  a  continuous  row  of  closely  planted 
headstones.  It  might  give  a  nervous  person  a 
shudder,  as  if  the  stones  were  waiting  for  him  to 
lie  down  in  their  lee  for  the  final,  inevitable  sleep, 
with  nothing  left  to  be  done  but  the  stone-cutter 
to  come  and  lie  on  the  other  side  the  fence. 

The  least  of  fences,  excepting  the  toy  fences 
that  impound  the  make-believe  herds  of  country 
children,  are  the  little  pickets  of  slivers  that 
guard  the  melon  and  cucumber  hills  from  the 


NEW  ENGLAND  FENCES          239 

claws  of  chanticleer  and  partlet.  These  are  as 
certain  signs  of  the  sure  establishment  of  spring  as 
the  cry  of  the  upland  plover.  They  maintain 
their  post  until  early  summer,  when,  if  they  have 
held  their  own  against  bugs,  the  vines  have  grown 
strong  enough  to  take  care  of  themselves  and  be- 
gin to  wander,  and  the  yellow  blossoms  meet  the 
bumble-bee  halfway. 

The  "line  fence,"  of  whatever  material,  may 
generally  be  known  by  the  trees  left  growing  along 
it,  living  landmarks,  safer  to  be  trusted  than 
stones  and  dead  wood,  and  showing  that,  as  little 
as  our  people  value  trees,  they  have  more  faith  in 
them  than  in  each  other.  The  burning  and  fall  of 
the  "corner  hemlock,"  on  which  was  carved  in 
1762  the  numbers  of  four  lots,  brought  dismay  to 
four  land-owners.  The  old  corner  has  lost  its 
mooring,  and  has  drifted  a  rod  or  two  away. 

What  heart-burnings  and  contentions  have 
there  not  been  concerning  line  fences,  feuds  last- 
ing through  generations,  engendered  by  their 
divergence  a  few  feet  to  the  right  or  left,  or  by 
the  question  as  to  whom  belonged  the  keeping  up 
of  this  part  or  that !  When  the  heads  of  some  rural 
households  were  at  pitchforks'  points,  a  son  and 
daughter  were  like  enough  to  fall  into  the  old  way, 
namely,  love,  and  Juliet  Brown  steals  forth  in  the 
moonlight  to  meet  Romeo  Jones,  and  they  bill  and 
coo  across  the  parents'  bone  of  contention,  hi  the 


240          NEW  ENGLAND  FENCES 

shadow  of  the  guardian  trees.  If  I  were  to  write  the 
story  of  their  love,  it  should  turn  at  length  into 
smooth  courses,  and  have  no  sorrowful  ending — 
no  departure  of  the  lover,  nor  pining  away  of  the 
lass,  but  at  last  their  bridal  bells  should  say: 

"Life  is  sweeter,  love  is  dearer, 
For  the  trial  and  delay  "; 

and  the  two  farms  should  become  one,  and  nothing 
remain  of  the  old  fence  but  the  trees  where  the 
lovers  met,  and  under  which  then*  children  and 
then*  children's  children  should  play. 

The  ways  through  and  over  our  fences  are  few 
and  simple.  The  bar-way  (in  Yankeeland  "a  pair 
of  bars")  seems  to  belong  to  the  stone  wall,  rail 
and  stump  fences;  though  the  balanced  gate,  with 
its  long  top  bar  pivoted  on  a  post  and  loaded  with 
a  big  stone  at  one  end,  the  other  dropping  into  a 
notch  in  the  other  post  for  a  fastening,  is  often 
used  to  bar  the  roadways  through  them.  The  more 
pretending  board  fence  has  its  more  carefully 
made  gate,  swinging  on  iron  hinges  and  fastened 
with  a  hook.  Sometimes  its  posts  are  connected 
high  overhead  by  a  cross  beam,  —  a  "gallows 
gate,"  —  past  which  one  would  think  the  mur- 
derer must  steal  with  terror  as  he  skulks  along  in 
the  gloaming. 

The  sound  of  letting  down  the  bars  is  a  familiar 
one  to  New  England  ears,  and  after  the  five  or 


NEW  ENGLAND  FENCES  241 

six  resonant  wooden  clangs,  one  listens  to  hear 
the  cow-boy  lift  up  his  voice,  or  the  farmer  call  his 
sheep.  The  rail  fence  is  a  stile  all  along  its  length, 
and  so  is  a  stone  wall,  though  a  stone  or  so  is  apt  to 
tumble  down  if  you  clamber  over  it  in  an  unaccus- 
tomed place.  The  footpath  runs  right  over  the 
rail  fence,  as  easy  to  be  seen  in  the  polishing  of  the 
top  rail  as  in  the  trodden  sward.  On  some  much- 
frequented  ways  "across  lots"  as  to  a  spring,  a 
slanted  plank  on  either  side  the  fence  affords  a 
comfortable  passage,  and  down  its  pleasant  in- 
cline a  boy  can  no  more  walk  than  his  marbles 
could.  Let  no  one  feel  too  proud  to  crawl  through 
a  stump  fence,  but  be  humbly  thankful  if  he  can 
find  a  hole  that  will  give  him  passage.  A  bird  can 
go  over  one  very  comfortably,  and  likewise  over 
a  brush  fence,  and  this  last  nothing  without  wings 
can  do;  man  and  every  beast  larger  than  a  squirrel 
must  wade  through  it,  unless  they  have  the  luck 
to  come  to  a  pole-barway  in  it. 

A  chapter  might  be  written  of  fence  breakers 
and  leapers;  of  wickedly  wise  cows  who  unhook 
gates  and  toss  off  rails  almost  as  handily  as  if  they 
were  human;  of  sheep  who  find  holes  that  escape 
the  eyes  of  their  owners,  and  go  through  them  with 
a  flourish  of  trumpets  like  a  victorious  army  that 
has  breached  the  walls  of  a  city;  of  horses  who,  in 
spite  of  pokes,  take  fences  like  trained  steeple- 
chasers, and  another  chapter  of  fence  walkers, 


242          NEW  ENGLAND  FENCES 

too,  —  for  the  rail  fence  and  stone  wall  are  con- 
venient highways  for  the  squirrel  whereon  to 
pass  from  nut-tree  and  cornfield  to  storehouse 
and  home,  and  for  puss  to  pick  her  dainty  way, 
dry-footed,  to  and  from  her  mousing  and  bird- 
poaching  in  the  fields;  the  coon  walks  there,  and 
Reynard  makes  them  a  link  in  the  chain  of  his 
subtle  devices. 

One  cannot  help  thinking  of  the  possibility  that, 
by  and  by,  high  farming  may  become  universal, 
and  soiling  may  become  the  common  practice  of 
farmers,  and  that  then  the  building  and  keeping 
up  of  fences  will  end  with  the  need  of  them,  and 
the  boundaries  of  farms  be  marked  only  by  iron 
posts  or  stone  pillars;  then  the  old  landmarks  of 
gray  fences,  with  their  trees  and  shrubs  and  flower- 
ing weeds,  will  have  passed  away  and  no  herds  of 
kine  or  flocks  of  sheep  dot  the  fields;  and  then, 
besides  men  and  teams,  there  will  be  no  living 
thing  larger  than  a  bird  in  the  wide  landscape. 
The  prospect  of  such  a  time  goes,  with  many 
other  things,  to  reconcile  one  to  the  thought,  that 
before  that  day  his  eyes  will  be  closed  in  a  sleep 
which  such  changed  scenes  will  not  trouble. 


HUNTING  THE  HONEY-BEE 

THE  honey-bee  came  to  America  with  civilization, 
—  probably  with  the  Pilgrims.  Such  industrious 
and  thrifty  little  people,  withal  so  warlike  upon 
occasion,  and  sometimes  without,  were  likely  to 
find  favor  with  the  pious  fathers,  who  themselves 
possessed  and  valued  these  traits.  After  getting 
some  foothold  in  their  new  home,  they  would  have 
had  a  hive  or  two  of  real  English  bees  brought 
over  in  some  small  tub  of  a  ship,  tossed  and  buffeted 
across  the  wintry  seas. 

How  the  home  feeling  came  back  to  the  Puritan 
housewife  when  the  little  house  of  straw,  built  hi 
England,  was  duly  set  on  its  bench,  and  in  the  first 
warm  days  of  the  early  spring  its  inmates  awoke  to 
find  themselves  in  a  wild,  strange  land,  and  buzzed 
forth  to  experiment  on  the  sap  of  the  maple  logs  in 
the  woodpile.  How  sweet  to  her  homesick  heart 
.'  then*  familiar  drowsy  hum,  and  how  sad  the  mem- 
ories they  awakened  of  the  fields  of  daisies  and 
violets  and  blooming  hedgerows  in  the  loved  Eng- 
land never  to  be  seen  again. 

There  was  rejoicing  in  the  straw  house  when 
the  willow  catkins  in  the  swamp  and  along  the 
brooksides  turned  from  silver  to  gold,  and  a  happy 
bee  must  she  have  been  who  first  found  the  ar- 


244       HUNTING  THE  HONEY-BEE 

butus  in  its  hiding-place  among  the  dead  leaves, 
and  the  clusters  of  liverwort  nodding  above  their 
purple-green  leaves  in  the  April  wind,  and  the 
light  drift  of  shad-blows  that  gleamed  in  the  gray 
woods.  Here  were  treasures  worth  forsaking  even 
England  to  gather.  Later  she  found  the  colum- 
bine, drooping  over  the  ledge,  heavy  with  sweets 
unattainable,  and  was  fooled  with  the  empty 
chalice  of  the  bath-flower  and  with  violets,  blue  as 
those  of  her  own  home,  but  scentless  as  spring- 
water. 

Catching  the  spirit  of  their  masters,  some  of 
the  bees  set  then*  light  sails  and  ventured  far  into 
the  great,  mysterious  forest,  and,  founding  col- 
onies in  hollow  trees,  began  a  life  of  independence. 
Their  hoarded  sweets  became  known  to  the  bears 
and  the  Indians,  no  one  knows  how,  or  to  which 
first.  Perhaps  the  first  swarm  that  flew  wild 
hived  itself  inside  a  tree  which  was  the  winter 
home  of  a  bear,  who,  climbing  to  his  retreat  when 
the  first  snows  had  powdered  the  green  of  the  hem- 
locks and  the  russet  floor  of  the  woods,  and  back- 
ing down  to  his  nest,  found  his  way  impeded  by 
shelves  of  comb,  filled  with  luscious  sweetness  the 
like  of  which  no  New  England  bear  had  ever  be- 
fore tasted  —  something  to  make  his  paws  more 
savory  sucking  through  the  long  months.  Then 
the  Indian,  tracing  him  to  his  lair,  secured  a 
double  prize  —  a  fat  bear,  and  something  sweeter 


HUNTING  THE  HONEY-BEE       245 

than  maple  sap  or  sugar.  There  is  a  tradition  that 
an  Indian  wizard  was  feasted  on  bread  and  honey, 
and  strong  water  sweetened  with  honey,  by  the 
wife  of  a  Puritan  magistrate,  to  the  great  satis- 
faction of  the  inner  red  man.  Learning  whence 
the  lucent  syrup  came,  he  told  the  bees  such  tales 
of  the  flowers  of  the  forest,  blooming  from  the 
sunny  days  of  mid-April  till  into  the  depth  of 
winter  (for  he  bethought  him  that  the  sapless 
yellow  blossoms  of  his  own  witch-hazel  would  in 
some  sort  bear  out  his  word),  that  all  the  young 
swarms  betook  themselves  to  the  wild  woods  and 
made  their  home  therein.  Another  legend  is  that 
the  wizard,  in  some  way  learning  the  secret  of  the 
bees,  took  on  the  semblance  of  their  queen,  and 
led  a  swarm  into  the  woods,  where  he  established 
it  in  a  hollow  tree,  and  so  began  the  generation  of 
wild  bees. 

However  it  came  about,  swarms  of  bees  now 
and  then  lapsed  into  the  primitive  ways  of  life 
that  their  remote  ancestors  held,  and  have  con- 
tinued to  do  so  down  to  these  times,  and  will, 
when  the  freak  takes  them,  utterly  refuse  to  be 
charmed  or  terrified  into  abiding  with  then*  owners 
by  any  banging  of  pans  or  blowing  of  horns. 

No  one  knows  who  our  first  bee-hunter  was, 
whether  black  bear,  red  Indian,  or  white  hunter, 
but  the  bear  or  the  Indian  was  likeliest  to  become 
such.  Bruin's  keen  nose  was  his  guide  to  the  prize, 


246       HUNTING  THE  HONEY-BEE 

the  Indian's  sharp  eyes  and  woodcraft  his,  and  the 
white  man  improved  on  the  primitive  ways  by  the 
invention  of  the  bee-box  and  the  science  of  cross- 
lining. 

Bee-trees  are  sometimes  found  by  accident,  as 
when  the  bees,  having  been  beguiled  untimely 
forth  by  the  warmth  of  the  February  or  March 
sunbeams,  are  benumbed  on  exposure  to  the  chill 
outer  air  and  fall  helpless  and  conspicuous  on  the 
snow  at  the  tree's  foot;  or  when  in  more  genial 
days  the  in-going  or  out-coming  of  the  busy  in- 
mates betrays  then*  home  to  some  hunter  of  larger 
game,  or  searcher  for  a  particular  kind  or  fashion 
of  a  timber  tree.  Well  do  I  remember  how  Uncle 
Key,1  veteran  of  our  then  last  war,  first  master  of 
our  post-office,  and  most  obliging  of  station- 
agents,  discovered  a  great  bee-tree  on  the  side  of 
the  "New  Road"  2  as  it  truly  was  then,  and  as  it 
is  and  always  will  be  called,  I  suppose,  though  its 
venerable  projectors  have  long  been  laid  to  rest. 
Alert  to  profit  by  his  discovery,  Uncle  Key  called 
to  his  aid  a  couple  of  stout  fellows,  and  with  axes 
and  vessels  to  hold  a  hundredweight  or  more  of 
honey,  he  went  to  reap  his  reward.  The  tree  was  a 
monster;  what  an  ocean  of  honey  it  might  hold! 
There  was  no  way  in  which  it  could  be  felled  but 
right  across  the  road,  and  there  at  last  it  lay, 

1  Uncle  Key  =  Joshua  Locke. 
*  New  Road  =  Greenbush  Road. 


HUNTING  THE  HONEY-BEE       247 

after  much  sweating  of  brows  and  lusty  plying  of 
axes  —  a  barrier  impassable  to  teams,  athwart 
the  commonwealth's  highway,  and  nothing  in  it 
but  a  nest  of  yellow-jackets !  Another  who  suffered 
a  like  disappointment  and  a  cruel  stinging  to  boot, 
when  asked,  by  one  aware  of  the  facts,  "if  he  had 
got  much  honey,"  answered,  as  he  rubbed  open 
his  swollen  eyelids:  "No,  we  didn't  git  much 
honey,  but  we  broke  up  their  cussed  haunt." 
There  was  a  degree  of  consolation  in  this. 

I  do  not  like  the  bee-hunter  as  a  bee-hunter, 
for  he  is  a  ruthless  and  lawless  slayer  of  old  trees. 
I  cherish  an  abiding  hatred  of  one  who  cut  the 
last  of  the  great  buttonwoods  on  Sungahnee's 
bank.  Think  of  his  lopping  down  a  tree  whose 
broad  leaves  had  dotted  with  shadow  the  passing 
canoes  of  Abenakis,  in  whose  wide  shade  salmon 
swam  and  wild  swans  preened  their  snowy  plum- 
age in  the  old  days,  —  and  for  a  paltry  pailful  of 
honey!  I  hope  the  price  of  his  ill-gotten  spoils 
burned  his  fingers  and  his  pocket,  and  was  spent 
to  no  purpose;  that  the  honey  he  ate  turned  to 
acid  in  his  maw  and  vexed  his  ulterior  with  gripes 
and  colic;  and  I  wish  the  bleaching  bones  of  the 
murdered  tree  might  arise  nightly  and  confront 
him  as  a  fearful  ghost.  Its  roots  were  not  in  my 
soil,  but  its  lordly  branches  grew  in  the  free  air 
which  is  as  much  mine  as  any  man's,  and  when 
they  were  laid  low  I  was  done  a  grievous  and  ir- 


248       HUNTING  THE  HONEY-BEE 

reparable  wrong.  A  good  and  thoughtful  man  has 
such  a  tender  feeling  for  trees  and  the  rights  of 
other  men  that  he  will  think  twice  before  he  cuts 
even  a  sapling  for  his  real  need.  I  abhor  those 
murdering  fellows  who  think  no  more  of  taking 
the  life  of  a  tree  a  century  or  two  old  than  they 
would  of  killing  a  man. 

Nevertheless,  I  have  good  friends  who  are  bee- 
hunters,  chief  among  them  one x  who  knows 
enough  of  Nature's  secrets  to  make  the  reputation 
of  two  or  three  naturalists.  The  successful  issue 
of  a  bee-hunt  gives  the  toil  a  veritable  sweetening, 
but  I  think  my  friend  is  successful  even  when  un- 
successful, and  that  there  is  something  sweeter  to 
him  in  the  quest  than  in  the  finding  of  a  well-filled 
bee-tree. 

Our  bee-hunter  chooses  August  and  September 
for  his  labor,  or  pastime,  whichever  it  may  be 
called,  and  he  can  hardly  find  a  pleasanter  day 
for  it  than  one  of  those  which  August  sometimes 
brings  us  in  its  later  weeks — days  that  give  us  a 
foretaste  of  September's  best,  but  are  fuller  of 
blossoms  than  they  will  be,  though  there  are  not 
enough  flowers  in  the  woods  to  keep  the  wild  bees 
busy  there.  The  sky  is  of  purest  blue,  and  across 
it  a  few  clear-edged  clouds,  fleeces  of  silver  and 
pearl,  slowly  drift  before  a  fresh  northerly  breeze, 
and  their  swifter  shadows  drift  across  the  ripening 
1  Joe  Birkett. 


HUNTING  THE  HONEY-BEE        249 

landscape  —  now  darkening  the  green  of  meadow 
and  pasture  land,  now  the  yellow  of  the  stubble 
fields,  and  now  flooding  the  light  and  shade  of  the 
woods  with  universal  shadow.  There  is  a  whole- 
some coolness  in  the  shade,  and  not  too  fervent 
warmth  in  the  sunshine  for  one  to  bask  comfortably 
therein  if  he  will. 

The  bee-hunter  is  burdened  with  but  few  im- 
plements in  his  chase:  first  of  all,  a  "bee-box," 
six  inches  or  so  hi  length  and  a  little  less  in  width 
and  height,  with  a  hinged  lid  in  which  is  set  a 
small  square  of  glass;  midway  between  this  and  the 
bottom  is  a  slide  dividing  the  box  into  two  com- 
partments, the  lower  one  holding  a  piece  of  honey- 
comb partly  filled  when  in  use  with  a  thin  syrup  of 
white  sugar  and  water.  There  is  also  an  axe,  or, 
perhaps,  no  larger  cutting  tool  than  a  jack-knife; 
sometimes  a  compass,  and,  if  he  be  of  a  feeding 
turn  of  stomach,  a  dinner-pail.  So  equipped,  he 
takes  the  field,  seeking  his  small  quarry  along 
wood-side  meadow  fences,  whose  stakes  and  top 
rails  alone  show  above  a  flowery  tangle  of  golden- 
rod,  asters,  and  willow  herb;  in  pastures  that 
border  the  woods,  dotted  with  these  and  thorny 
clumps  of  bull-thistles  and  the  dark-green  sedge 
and  wild  grass  of  the  swales,  overtopped  by  the 
dull  white  blossoms  of  boneset,  pierced  by  clustered 
purple  spikes  of  vervain,  and  here  and  there 
ablaze  with  the  fire  of  the  cardinal-flower. 


250       HUNTING  THE  HONEY-BEE 

Carefully  looking  over  the  flowers  as  he  goes 
slowly  along,  among  the  bumble-bees  and  wasps 
that  are  gathering  from  them  then*  slender  stores 
of  present  food  his  quick  eye  discovers  a  honey- 
bee alight  on  the  upright  tassel  of  a  thistle,  or 
sucking  a  medicated  sweet  from  the  bitter  flower 
of  the  boneset,  or  stealing  the  fairy's  draught  from 
the  little  tankard  of  the  wild  balsam,  or  working  a 
placer  of  goldenrod,  or  exploring  a  constellation 
of  asters;  and  stealthily  slipping  the  open  box 
under  her,  he  claps  the  cover  down,  and  has  her  a 
fast  prisoner.  Now  he  darkens  her  cell  by  covering 
the  glass  with  his  hand  till  she  has  buzzed  away 
her  wrath  and  astonishment  and  settles  on  the  bit 
of  comb  which,  before  catching  her,  the  hunter 
had  placed  on  the  slide.  Seeing  through  the  little 
skylight  that  she  is  making  the  best  of  the  situa- 
tion and  is  contentedly  filling  herself  with  the 
plentiful  fare  provided,  he  sets  the  box  on  a 
stump,  boulder,  or  fence  (if  either  be  at  hand  —  if 
not,  he  drives  a  triple-forked  stake,  or  piles  a  few 
"chunks"  for  the  purpose),  and,  opening  the  lid, 
sits  or  stands  at  a  little  distance,  awaiting  the  out- 
coming  of  the  bee. 

This  takes  place  in  five  minutes  or  so,  when, 
having  freighted  herself,  she  takes  whig  and  rises  a 
few  feet,  circles  rapidly  till  she  has  her  bearings, 
and  then  sails  swiftly  homeward.  What  compass 
does  she  carry  in  her  little  head  to  guide  her  so 


HUNTING  THE  HONEY-BEE       251 

truly?  The  hunter  takes  no  great  pains  to  get  her 
course  this  first  trip.  He  places  the  comb  on  the 
closed  lid  of  the  box,  replenishes  its  cells  from  a 
vial  of  syrup,  lights  his  pipe,  and  disposes  himself 
comfortably  to  watch  the  return  of  his  sometime 
captive.  The  length  of  time  he  has  to  wait  for 
this  depends  partly  on  the  distance  the  bee  has  to 
go  and  partly  on  the  wealth  of  her  swarm,  the 
members  of  a  swarm  with  a  scanty  store  of  honey 
working  faster  than  those  of  a  rich  one. 

But  soon  or  late  she  comes  humming  back,  and, 
beating  about  a  little,  finds  the  lure  and  settles 
upon  it,  fills  herself,  rises,  circles,  and  is  away 
again.  Now  the  hunter  tries  his  best  to  catch  her 
course,  and  it  needs  a  quick  and  practiced  eye  to 
follow  the  brown  speck  as  it  gyrates  wildly  over- 
head for  a  moment  and  then  darts  away  on  the 
"bee-line,"  straight  and  swift  as  an  arrow.  Some- 
times he  gets  rid  of  the  uncomfortable  twisting  of 
the  neck  which  such  rapid  eye-following  requires 
when  sitting  or  standing,  by  lying  on  his  back  near 
the  box. 

The  bee  has  told  her  people  of  the  easily  gotten 
nectar,  and,  when  next  returning,  brings  a  com- 
panion with  her,  and  at  each  return  perhaps  an- 
other, till,  maybe,  a  dozen  are  busy  about  the 
comb,  and,  as  each  flies  homeward,  the  hunter 
strives  to  get  its  line  of  flight.  Having  this  line 
pretty  well  established,  if  their  journeys  are  evi- 


252       HUNTING  THE  HONEY-BEE 

dently  short  he  follows  it  into  the  wood,  and  per- 
haps has  the  luck  of  finding  the  tree  in  a  few  min- 
utes. 

Our  bee-hunter  has  no  helpful  bird,  as  the  Afri- 
can bee-hunter  has,  to  lead  him  by  voice  and  flight 
to  the  hidden  sweets,  but  must  depend  altogether 
on  his  own  sharp  eyes  and  skill.  He  takes  little 
note  of  anything  unconnected  with  his  quest  as  he 
pushes  through  the  brushwood  and  briers,  and 
tramples  the  ferns  under  foot.  The  pack  of  half- 
grown  grouse  that  go  whirring  away  from  his  very 
feet  may  startle  him  with  the  suddenness  of  their 
uprising,  but  further  than  this  he  notices  them  as 
little  as  he  does  the  jays  that  scold  him  or  the 
squirrels  that  jeer  at  him,  but  holds  right  onward, 
his  eye  climbing  every  tree  on  the  line  that  gives 
sign  of  hollow-heartedness,  searching  every  foot 
of  its  length  for  the  knot-hole,  woodpecker's  bor- 
ing, or  crevice  which  may  be  the  gate  of  the  bee's 
castle.  Finding  this,  he  takes  formal  possession  by 
right  of  discovery,  and  hoists  his  flag  on  the  walls, 
or,  to  be  more  exact,  carves  his  initials  on  the 
bark. 

If  the  bees  are  long  hi  going  and  coming,  he  re- 
moves the  comb  to  the  bottom  of  the  box,  and, 
when  some  of  the  bees  have  settled  on  it,  closes  the 
lid.  Then  he  jars  the  box  till  the  bees  rise  to  the 
top,  when  he  shuts  them  off  from  the  comb  by 
closing  the  slide.  This  is  to  prevent  them  from 


HUNTING  THE  HONEY-BEE       253 

besmearing  themselves  with  the  syrup  while  being 
"moved  up  on  the  line,"  which  is  now  to  be  done. 

The  hunter  strikes  into  the  woods  at  a  smart 
pace,  but  carefully  keeping  his  course  and  nurs- 
ing his  box  tenderly  under  his  arm.  So  going  for 
twenty,  thirty,  forty,  or  more  rods,  but  not  too  far, 
in  some  convenient  little  opening  or  clearing,  if  he 
comes  to  it,  he  "sets  up"  again  and  lets  the  bees 
on  the  comb,  where  they  fill  themselves  and  go  and 
come  as  before.  My  bee-hunting  friend  tells  me 
if  the  box  has  been  unwittingly  carried  beyond 
then*  home,  somehow  the  bees  fail  to  find  it  again, 
as  they  do  if  it  is  set  up  very  near  the  tree  on  the 
side  it  was  approached.  In  the  last  case  they  prob- 
ably overfly  it,  but  both  failures  seem  strange  in 
such  wise  little  folk. 

"Cross-lining"  is  done  by  setting  up  at  some 
little  distance  from  the  line  already  established, 
and  getting  a  new  one.  Where  this  intersects  the 
old,  there,  of  course,  the  bee-tree  is,  but  it  is  not 
the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  find  even  then,  for 
there  may  be  a  dozen  trees  about  this  not  very 
well-defined  point,  each  of  which  is  likely  enough, 
as  looks  go,  to  be  the  particular  one. 

A  couple  of  our  bee-hunters  had  looked  long 
for  a  tree  on  their  line  when  one  of  them,  backing 
up  against  a  great  basswood  to  rest,  was  stung 
midway  between  his  head  and  his  heels,  that  part 
of  his  person  happening  to  block  the  entrance,  so 


254       HUNTING  THE  HONEY-BEE 

low  that  it  had  been  overlooked,  to  what  proved  to 
be  an  eighty-pound  bee-tree.  My  particular  bee- 
hunter  was  puzzled  by  a  swarm  this  season  which 
he  found  at  last  in  a  fallen  tree,  and  so  was  saved 
the  labor  of  much  chopping. 

Like  other  mortals,  the  bee-hunter  has  his  dis- 
appointments, as  when  the  bees  that  he  has  lined 
through  woods  and  across  fields  for  a  whole  day, 
perhaps,  or  even  longer,  lead  him  at  last  to  the 
sheltered  hives  of  some  farmhouse;  or  more  than 
this,  when,  having  found  his  tree  and  put  his  mark 
upon  it,  he  goes  at  the  first  opportunity  to  cut  it 
and  finds  that  he  has  been  forestalled  by  some 
freebooter,  who  has  left  him  only  the  fallen  tree, 
some  fragments  of  empty  comb,  and  the  forlorn 
survivors  of  the  harried  swarm. 

When  the  stronghold  of  the  bees  is  sapped  by 
the  hunter's  axe  and  topples  down,  in  many  cases 
the  garrison  appears  to  be  so  overwhelmed  by  the 
calamity  as  to  offer  little  or  no  resistance;  but  often 
the  doughty  little  amazons  fight  so  bravely  for 
home  and  honey,  that  their  assailants  are  obliged 
to  smother  them  with  a  "smudge"  of  dead  leaves 
or  straw  before  they  can  secure  then-  booty. 

The  honey  of  the  woods,  though  apt  to  be  some- 
what dirty,  from  the  manner  in  which  it  is  ob- 
tained, is  thought  by  many  to  be  better  than  the 
honey  of  the  hives.  I  never  knew  one  who  loved 
the  woods  much  that  did  not  find  wild  meat  more 


HUNTING  THE  HONEY-BEE        255 

toothsome  than  tame;  and  such  may  easily  believe 
that  this  honey  holds  something  of  the  aroma  of 
the  wild  flowers  from  which  it  is  so  largely  gathered 
and  has  caught  a  woodsy  flavor  from  its  wild  sur- 
roundings. 


THE  VOICES  OF  THE  SEASONS 

ONE  threatened  with  the  loss  of  sight  very  nat- 
urally begins  to  reckon  how  far  his  other  senses  may 
be  depended  upon  to  acquaint  him  of  what  may 
be  going  on  about  him.  If  he  is  a  lover  of  nature, 
a  close  or  only  an  ordinary  observer  of  it,  he  will  be 
assured,  as  he  recalls  its  voices,  that  if  he  were  de- 
prived of  all  senses  but  that  of  hearing,  this  one 
sense  would  inform  him  of  the  presence  of  each 
season  if  it  did  not  apprize  him  of  its  coming. 

The  caw  of  returning  crows,  the  swelling  rush  of 
unbound  brooks,  the  nightly,  monotonous,  rasp- 
ing note  of  the  Acadian  owl,  would  tell  him  cer- 
tainly of  the  coming  of  spring.  He  would  know  by 
the  crackling  croak  of  the  frogs,  the  hyla's  shrill 
chime,  the  diffusive  ringing  of  the  toads,  by  the 
beat  and  roll  of  the  ruffed  grouse's  muffled  drum, 
and  by  the  querulous  whistle  of  the  woodchuck 
warmed  to  new  vitality,  that  the  soft  breath  of 
spring  was  filling  the  earth  with  lif  e,  that  the  squir- 
rel cups  were  blossoming  in  sunny  woodside  nooks, 
buds  of  arbutus  beginning  to  blush  under  their 
rusty  leaves  on  southern  slopes  of  woodland  ledges, 
and  willow  catkins  were  yellowing  the  swamps. 

In  sweetest  fashion  of  all,  the  birds  would  tell 
the  story.  Indeed,  if  he  had  ever  noted  their  com- 


THE  VOICES  OF  THE  SEASONS     257 

ing,  he  might  now  almost  name  the  day  of  the 
month  when  he  heard  the  twitter  of  the  first 
swallow,  the  flicker's  heartening  cackle,  the  jingle 
of  the  bobolink's  song,  the  swell  and  fall  of  the 
plover's  wail. 

The  wind  would  stir  the  new  leaves  to  tell  him 
they  were  out,  and  the  patter  of  the  rain  upon 
them  would  strengthen  then*  testimony  with  a 
sound  unmistakably  different  from  its  leaden  pelt- 
ing of  naked  boughs  and  dead  fields.  The  busy 
hum  of  bees  overhead  would  tell  of  the  blossoming 
of  fruit  trees,  when  the  pendulous  flowers  of  the 
locust  were  sweetest,  and  when,  in  July,  the  tiny 
bells  of  the  basswood  knolled  perfume  to  call  all 
the  bees  to  the  woods. 

He  would  know  when  summer  burned  hottest  by 
that  very  voice  of  heat,  the  shrill  cry  of  the  cicada, 
and  by  the  troubled  notes  of  parent  birds,  anx- 
iously watching  the  first  adventures  of  their 
chirping  young  in  a  world  rimmed  by  a  wider 
horizon  than  the  brink  of  the  nest,  and  at  night- 
fall, by  the  crickets,  creaking  in  full  chorus  with 
earnest,  tireless  monotony. 

A  little  later  would  be  heard  the  click  of  ripe 
apples  through  the  leaves  and  their  rebounding 
thuds  upon  the  ground;  at  dusk,  the  screech  owl 
shivering  out  his  gruesome  cry  in  the  old  orchard 
as  if  he  "for  all  his  feathers  was  a-cold"  with  the 
chill  of  the  first  autumnal  evenings;  and  from 


lonely  woods  would  come  the  similarly  quavering 
but  more  guttural,  wilder  and  more  lonesome  call 
of  the  raccoon. 

The  absence  of  the  earlier  migrants  would  as 
noticeably  mark  the  season  as  the  hail  and  fare- 
well of  others  passing  southward  hi  the  night- 
time; the  startled  chuckle  of  the  plover,  with 
hardly  a  hint  in  it  of  his  springtime  wail;  the 
scaipe  of  the  snipe;  the  woodcock's  whistle;  the 
bittern's  squawk,  voicing  all  his  ungainliness;  the 
quick,  sibilant  beat  of  wild  ducks'  wings;  and  the 
note  of  many  a  winged  traveler  whose  identity  can 
only  be  guessed  at.  One  may  know  when  October 
days  have  come  by  the  gentle  alighting  of  falling 
leaves,  the  incessant  nut-rasping  of  the  squirrels, 
the  busy  stir  and  low,  absorbed  notes  of  the  jays 
in  the  beeches,  the  irregular  patter  of  dropping 
mast,  the  chipmunk's  clucking  good-bye  to  the 
outer  world,  and  an  occasional  clamor  suddenly 
uprising  from  a  great  army  of  crows  on  its  winged 
retreat  to  more  hospitable  climes. 

Too  soon  one  hears  the  scurry  of  wind-blown 
leaves  along  the  earth  and  the  clash  of  naked 
branches,  the  purr  of  the  first  snow  falling  on 
frozen  grass  and  dry  leaves  and  its  light  beat  on 
roof  and  pane.  The  latest  migrating  wild  geese 
announce  their  passage  with  a  musical  confusion 
of  clarion  notes,  and  jays,  hairy  and  downy  wood- 
peckers, nuthatches  and  chickadees  come  from 


THE  VOICES  OF  THE  SEASONS     259 

the  woods  and  abide  near  the  habitations  of  men, 
each  with  well-known  note  making  one  aware  of 
his  presence.  With  the  snow  come  great  flocks  of 
snow  buntings,  late  familiars  of  the  Esquimau  and 
Lap,  the  white  bear  and  the  reindeer,  and  all  the 
animate  and  inanimate  savagery  of  the  frozen 
north.  Their  creaking  twitter  reminds  one  of 
the  creak  and  tinkle  of  moving  ice,  their  voice  a 
voice  of  winter,  unmistakable  though  faint. 

There  are  winter  days,  or  hours  in  winter  days, 
when  one's  ears  might  make  him  believe  that  night 
was  brooding  over  the  earth,  so  hushed  are  all 
the  voices  of  nature  in  a  silence  deeper  than  per- 
vades even  any  night  of  spring,  summer,  or  fall,  for 
the  silence  of  such  a  night  will  now  and  then  be 
broken  by  bisect,  reptile,  or  nocturnal  bird,  or 
nightly  prowling  beast,  or  be  emphasized  by  the 
low  murmur  of  a  distant  stream.  But  now,  not  a 
bird  note  nor  stir  of  withered  leaf,  nor  smothered 
plaint  of  ice-bound  brook,  no  sound  of  anything, 
animate  or  inanimate,  disturbs  the  deathlike 
quietude  which  as  unequivocally  if  not  as  im- 
periously, as  his  voices,  proclaim  the  absolute 
sovereignty  of  winter.  The  sullen  roar  of  the 
winds  in  leafless  woods,  the  hiss  of  driving  snow, 
the  crack  and  shiver  of  ice  may  be  heard  in  early 
spring  and  late  fall,  but  this  dead  stillness  is  a  sole 
prerogative  of  the  stern  king's  reign. 

When  an  unseasonable  rain  falls  on  the  snow, 


260    THE  VOICES  OF  THE  SEASONS 

freezing  as  it  falls,  there  is  presently  a  hollow  rattle 
of  drops  on  the  new-made  crust,  and  every  ice- 
sheathed  branch  and  twig  creaks  and  tinkles  in 
the  wind  till  the  trees  drop  showers  of  gems  that 
you  can  almost  hear  the  glitter  of.  Sometimes 
when  one  sets  foot  on  such  a  crust  it  seems  as  if 
the  whole  surface  of  a  great  field  sank  slightly,  with 
a  sudden  resentful  crash  at  the  crunch  of  the  first 
footfall.  One's  first  impression  is  that  he  has 
sprung  some  immense  natural  trap,  and  he  holds 
his  breath  for  an  instant  in  dazed  expectation  of 
catastrophe.  Another  characteristic  sound  of 
whiter  is  the  settling  of  "shell  ice,"  when  after  a 
great  thaw  and  flood,  followed  by  sudden  cold 
weather,  the  new  ice  falls  to  the  level  of  the  sub- 
siding waters.  It  drops  with  startling  suddenness, 
but  with  a  prolonged  musical  ring  very  different 
from  the  short,  flat  crack  of  snow  crust,  while 
splinters  of  the  broken  edges  slide  down  the  sloped 
border  and  far  across  the  lowered  level,  jingling 
and  clinking  as  they  glide  like  scattered  handf  uls 
of  silver  coin. 

In  the  neighborhood  of  great  frozen  lakes  is  often 
heard  one  of  the  wildest  sounds  of  winter  and  the 
most  unearthly,  the  booming  of  the  ice,  caused  by 
its  cracking  or  by  its  contracting  and  expanding, 
or,  as  some  maintain,  by  air  beneath  it.  At  first  a 
thin,  tortured  cry  arises,  faint  and  far  away, 
growing  louder  in  swift  approach,  rising  at  times 


THE  VOICES  OF  THE  SEASONS     261 

almost  to  a  yell,  and  mingled  with  hollow  groans, 
now  suddenly  ceasing  for  an  instant,  now  as  sud- 
denly bursting  forth,  then  falling  and  dying  away 
in  such  a  wail  as  it  began,  far  off  in  the  direction 
opposite  to  that  from  whence  it  arose.  It  is  as  if 
tormented  spirits  were  fleeing  through  the  air, 
fleeter  than  the  wind,  as  invisible,  with  voices  as 
pervasive. 

The  sharp,  clear,  resonant  crack  of  trees  under 
stress  of  severest  cold,  like  the  breaking  of  an 
over-strained  cord,  and  the  duller  snapping  of 
house  timbers,  tell  of  still  starlit  nights,  when  the 
whiskers  of  the  wandering  fox  are  silvered  with 
his  breath.  In  such  nights  the  great  horned  owl 
hoots  a  prophecy  of  storm.  Its  fulfillment  is 
heard  in  a  gusty  south  wind  driving  a  pelting  slant 
of  rain  against  weatherboards  and  windows  and 
upon  the  snow  till  the  rush  of  free  brooks  falls 
upon  the  ear  once  more. 

The  outlawed  crow  proclaims  his  return  to  such 
scant  forage  as  the  bare  fields  may  yield.  The 
great  owl's  least  cousin  sharpens  his  invisible  saw 
in  the  softer-breathing  evenings.  Some  morning 
the  first  robin  pipes  his  greeting,  then  from  high 
overhead  floats  down  the  heavenly  carol  of  the 
bluebird,  the  song  sparrow  sings  blithely  again 
and  phoebe  calls,  and  we  know,  though  we  only 
hear  of  it  from  them,  that  spring  is  here  once  more. 

THE   END 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .   A 


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